


Savage Music, Sombre Light

by snorklepie



Series: Scotland [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, F/M, Holmes Family, Kidnapping, M/M, Relationship Issues, Scotland, Sherlock's Past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 58,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snorklepie/pseuds/snorklepie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Edinburgh Problem and October to Hogmanay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Extract from _White Nocturne,_ by Conrad Potter Aiken 
> 
> You sit beneath the lamp and talk to me,  
> With dark hair somehow turned to fire,  
> Your white hands lie in your lap, or touch your lips,  
> And your talk, like music, weaving intricately,  
> Plays upon me. It is a magic of white  
> Touching and changing all familiar things;  
> It flows in the windy night,  
> It quietly opens secret doors, it sings,  
> It returns upon itself, repeats, denies,  
> Or takes sweet pleasure in silence. And all the while  
> You sit beneath the lamp, and smile,  
> Or turn away your eyes.  
> We remember, you seem to say,-  
> Choosing strange words to say it, in another way,-  
> How slowly and how inevitably we change,  
> How what was then familiar now grows strange ...  
> White valleys fall between us,  
> Your words become a wind, and heavily blow,  
> We seem to be crying across a chasm of snow,  
> Trying to hear the half-remembered words,  
> Trying to guess what we no longer know.

On the whole, Sherlock reflected as the door shut [quietly, carefully, definitely NOT a slam] behind John Watson, it hadn’t been a bad innings. He honestly hadn’t expected it to last even this long. 

The room was deafeningly silent after John left it. It pressed against his eardrums, just a little too firmly for comfort. But he was used to that. It was just going to go on for a lot longer than he had become accustomed to. Of course, John would come back presently; he’d be blushing and defensive and probably wouldn’t look Sherlock in the eye when he told him that he couldn’t, in all conscience, come back to London with him. 

Or perhaps, it would be more insidious. John would come back, angry and shaken; _outraged_ that Mary had had the _nerve_ to ask him to come back. To help raise her child. He’d cautiously lay a hand on Sherlock’s arm, gauging his reaction, before pulling him into a hug. And Sherlock would let him, because Sherlock wasn’t going to be able to stop himself cherishing the last few times this happened. He’d keep on counting each final touch, each press of John’s lips. There were a finite number left, after all.

But the idea would have been planted; John would start thinking about it over the next days and weeks. He’d drift off, into thoughts of a cheerful, slightly chaotic family home. Carrying a small, loud, demanding creature in one of those ridiculous carriers; pushing a pram round Tesco. 

John would think about being loved. John would think about being loved in an uncomplicated, straightforward way. He’d think about being loved by someone who didn’t boss him around or confuse him or infuriate him. 

Someone who could put it into words.

And of course, he’d start off thinking that he could have both. That he could keep Sherlock, albeit in a reduced capacity. They’d still see each other, be with each other on weekends. The thin end of the wedge.

_[Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. This place is a death-trap. It makes sense for me to find my own place; she’ll come come stay with me there. I’ll be back on Friday, don’t worry.]_

_[Sorry, love. She’s ill. She’s got a school project. We’re going on holiday. What, no you’d hate it! You’d be bored out of your mind. I’ll be back before you know it. You’ve got that case on, haven’t you?]_

_[Look, it was just stupid paying the rent on that place. There’s loads of room at the old house, Mary’s still got it. Look, don’t be daft. Of course we’re not-]_

_[Oh, Sherlock – we both knew this was coming. Let’s not make it any harder than it has to be. I think we both knew, deep down, that it was never going to work long-term. She needs me. I’ll miss you, of course I will. Look, Crouch End isn’t the moon; we can still see each other. I want us to be-]_

And that, Sherlock reflected as he pulled his blanket around himself tightly, would be _that_. 

The worst part of it, though, was that John hadn’t known it himself. 

John, who rolled over in bed and stole the covers and smiled at Sherlock with his hair all mussed and his face creased with sleep and who made Sherlock’s heart clench in a wholly unprecedented, slightly terrifying fashion. John who touched Sherlock with his small, square, deft, _beautiful_ hands and murmured stupidly sentimental words into the back of his neck when he thought Sherlock was asleep. John, who loved his gun just a little bit too much. John who carefully pushed back the dark things inside his head, who presented such a fascinatingly unassuming countenance to the world. Hidden behind kind smiles and offers of help and the scent of soft wool was the man who chose to immerse himself in a world of murder and felony; a man who could sleep soundly after taking a life. John, a beautiful, mad, dangerous, kind, brave, menacing man. 

Three months. It more than he deserved, really. Sherlock had known this was coming, of course he did. He was a genius, after all. He hadn’t entirely anticipated the physical reaction that accompanied the clamour in his head and the hollow feeling in his chest. The hurt was more than mental; his head _ached_ with the knowledge that John was ebbing away from him at this very minute. John was looking into Mary’s face by now, and wheels were beginning to turn. His doctor was gradually being swept away. 

[Could kill her, I suppose. It’s supposed to get easier, each time one does it. Mycroft would probably arrange it, if I could bring myself to ask nicely. Risky though. Could end up tied into taking the parental unit to the greatest horrors of the West End every month until doomsday. Still no guarantee that John would stay. Don’t think he’d like it.]

[Slight concern that I’d enjoy killing her a little too much. Bit not good, I suspect.]  
The ache in his skull was growing more acute; his stomach roiling. Chest pain, although the latter on closer inspection was more than likely psychosomatic. 

[Shouldn’t have thrown the cup, really. Why did I do that? It’s possible that I occasionally give in to my very slight penchant for the melodramatic, but that was a new one. Never had my heart broken before, though. Possibly it’s a common reaction.]

[Stupid, misleading phrase. It’s still functioning perfectly efficiently. I can feel it, pumping away tediously. Filling, emptying, refilling. Dull. Anatomy has no opinion on such matters. The only reasons my heart has been interfered with have been purely due to external forces. Giddily high amounts of cocaine. Bullet wounds. John Watson has had no effect on my heart.]

[Cold in here. Too much effort to light the fire. ]

[Oh god, what one wouldn’t give for the delicious slide of a needle into the crook of an elbow round about now. Wouldn’t have to be much. Just a taste. Would take the edge off wonderfully. He’d never know. He never noticed all those other times.]

[Not for a long time now, though. I did insist on making that stupid promise. Does it still count? Might not. John would probably think it does, though.] [Maybe I should find out.] 

[No.] [Not yet, anyway.]

[God, crying. It’s utterly _revolting._ Thank goodness I can usually control it. Wasn’t always able to. Did quite a lot of it on my last day in this room, the day after the-]

[STOP.]

[Blanket’s quite absorbent. Useful.][Lambswool, hand-woven. Vegetable-based dye; deep red probably derived from lichen. Pattern of wear suggests age of approximately forty-three years. Scent of lanolin. Wood-smoke. Dove brand soap. John Watson’s skin.]

[STOP!] 

Sherlock forced himself to look out of the window. The small figure in the grey coat had moved from her spot outside the kitchen door, and was now dusting the snow off a low wall before sitting down on it. It was like watching a scene on film. No matter how much he willed things to go otherwise, he couldn’t stop the inevitable chain of events. It was predetermined. In a moment, John would open the door of the kitchen and step outside; wrong-footed and uncomfortable. She was clever; she’d diffuse the tension before long. She knew which buttons to press. Mary was, he supposed, a genius in some respects. 

She knew how to play this game. 

Sherlock didn’t even really know how to read the instructions. 

[No. Can’t watch it. Masochism has never been my speciality.]

With an effort, he swung his legs off the worn window-seat, pressing the soles of his bare feet on the dark wooden floor for a long moment. With an even greater effort he focussed on the difference of temperature; the heat of his skin against the cold, time roughened wood. 

[Floor: approximately 10.3 degrees Celsius. Feet: 39.2, give or take. Apallingly imprecise, this morning.] 

[Strange. Not just tears on my face; sweat too. Didn’t notice. Might be ill? John would have to come and tend to me. Like when he does that, though I usually pretend otherwise. The crease between his eyebrows gets a fraction more pronounced. The feeling of his palm against my forehead. His fingers sliding along my jaw, pressing gently around my ears; checking my lymph glands. Might put off the inevitable, just a little longer.] [What was I just saying about masochism?]

[Head really does ache quite a lot now. Vasodilation of cranial blood vessels becoming apparent. Should have realised earlier. Sentiment has become a stupidly potent distraction lately.]

He was unprepared for the weakness in his legs as he got to his feet, grabbing for the heavy curtain as he staggered. It was too late. After a brief and ridiculous struggle with the drapes, he collapsed on the floor; the blanket trailing messily over his traitorous, wobbling legs. 

[Perfect. Just bloody perfect.]

[Might stay down here for a while, actually. Awfully long way to the bed.]

The ache persisted, spreading slowly along the back of his head. Sherlock huddled fitfully in his blanket, and closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at the shards of china that still littered the floor. 

[Shouldn’t have done that, really. Quite a nice cup. Hated the look on his face.]

[Tea not quite as good as usual, though. Queen Anne loose leaf; brewed for approximately four minutes. Milk added before the tea (vulgar). One and a half teaspoons of raw cane sugar…]

[Oh, _bugger_.]

***

He wasn’t entirely surely how much time had passed before the bedroom door opened, swift and quiet. He knew it wasn’t going to be John who entered the room next, not when it had finally [stupid, _stupid_ , how did it take you so bloody _long_ to realise?!] become clear what had happened. He had heard the footsteps as they advanced along the corridor outside; felt the minute vibrations of the wood beneath his cheek. [Mmm. Two… no, three. Men. She’s… she’s still with John. John. John! What’s happening to John?] 

“Good. He is unconscious already.” [Toulouse. No, wait…Marseilles accent? Interesting.]

“Not… quite.” he cracked an eye open, and stared up at the man as imperiously as he could manage. 

After all, Sherlock mused a few hours later, when one is lying on the floor, wearing half-unbuttoned pajamas and sporting a considerable amount of saliva sliding from the corner of one’s mouth; there is a limit to the amount of gravitas a body can muster. He got a rather better view of the man when he went down on one knee next to his head. The boot that came to rest within his range of vision was well-made and sturdy, still lightly dusted with traces of snow. His soon-to-be captor smiled genially, bending down so that Sherlock could look into his face without too much difficulty. Through the haze, Sherlock observed that he was a former long-distance truck driver, the youngest of three brothers. Dyed blonde hair and a rather ruddy complexion, around thirty-seven years old. The scars on his hands suggested quite a successful history of bare-knuckle fighting and at least four years in prison. 

“Mister Holmes. Nice to meet you.” [definitely Marseilles.]

“Hnngh.” With an effort, Sherlock swallowed and attempted to push himself up on hands and knees. This failed abysmally, and the man looked at him with concern as he crashed painfully back to the floor. 

“No, no, Mister Holmes. Don’t exert yourself. Save your strength. We’ll help you up.”

As he was pulled carefully to his feet, Sherlock took in the other two men who were quietly waiting. One stood just inside one of the double doors, taking a sidelong glance down the hallway. He was a pale, bald, bland faced man dressed all in dark grey; biceps bulging hugely even through his thick jacket. His expressionless face was dappled with a considerable amount adult acne. Clear signs of steroid abuse. 

The other man was considerably younger, with a narrow foxy face and a frankly ludicrous tattoo of a wolf on the side of his neck. He wore a black knitted hat over short, dingy brown hair and was leaning against the back of the old leather sofa. He was looking at Sherlock with an almost offensive amount of interest as he ran the tip of a large hunting knife slowly under his fingernails, carefully cleaning the grime from beneath them.

[No signs of violence on any of their persons. That idiot is clearly itching to punch _someone_ , and hasn’t had the chance yet. They can’t have encountered anyone since entering the house. Thank god. Violet should be reasonable in an altercation but Singh is nothing but a liability. Am personally of limited use at the moment. Christ, my head _hurts_. John is clearly being kept out of the way. Probably for the best, unless he could join forces with Vi. Unlikely though, given the timeframe.]

“Who… who sent you? You… don’t work for _her_.”  
Bleach-blonde snorted quietly, and shook his head. He didn’t let go of Sherlock’s arm, keeping him in place and solicitously preventing him from falling over. “No, Mister Holmes. A temporary arrangement. Ana’s been very helpful, though.”

The tattooed youth with the knife raised an incredulous eyebrow, and spat messily on the rug. He muttered something almost inaudible, which his cohorts ignored. In his cursed, muddled state Sherlock was unable to put together a precise translation, but gathered that he found the idea of answering to a female rather laughable. What caused Sherlock a sudden crackle of unease, however, was that he was almost sure the man spoke in Armenian. 

[Pull yourself together. There are over three million Armenians in the world. Harman’s dead. You saw pictures of his corpse. He was very, very dead, if you care to recall? Mind working terrifyingly slowly. _Pay attention_ ]

“Y’re not…man in charge…”

“Well, Mister Holmes, I am certainly am for the time being,” Bleach-blonde replied, patting him on the arm. His voice was disconcertingly soft, his manner solicitous. He was positively likeable until one looked into his eyes, which were steely, flat and utterly cold. “Come along. Time to go.”

“Wh-?”

“All in good time, my friend.” Bleach-blonde tightened his grip. Sherlock made a token attempt to resist, but his efforts were uncoordinated and feeble. The man tutted in a good-natured way, as if Sherlock were a slightly ill-behaved pet.

Sherlock glared at him. “Too- too col…”

“It is time to go.” Biceps said insistently, glancing back around from the doorway. [German? Alsatian? Positive UN of henchmen…] “Please, let’s get him out of here.”  
Bleach-blonde nodded in agreement, although there was a flash of irritation at the authoritative tone. His grip on Sherlock’s bicep tightened, not deliberately painful but on the edge of it. Sherlock sagged on his left side, long past the point where he could stand unaided. He waved a hand vaguely at the discarded clothing on the ottoman at the end of the bed. If he was being kidnapped, he might as well be suitably attired. “Clothes. Coat-“

“Here.” Biceps said shortly, grabbing a sweater at random and shoving it at Sherlock. It was John’s, the teal green sweater that Violet had knitted. Sherlock’s hand latched onto it feebly, and he clutched it to his chest with all the strength he could muster. 

[Cashmere and merino wool. Antique horn buttons. She never knitted _me_ a jumper. John’s fingers, sticky with gingerbread, combing through his hair. John. John. 

Where is John? He’s with her, he’s not _safe._ ] 

[Can’t begin to take them on in this state. ‘Least three guns. Knife. Phone? Where is it? Not here. Damn. Shout? Or not shout? Can I shout? Can’t. Bad idea. Not good. Violet. Patrick. Shh… John. John. John.]

The room was growing steadily darker as he was bundled towards the doors, the edges of his vision becoming distressingly blurred. Distantly, Sherlock could feel his treacherous body listing, until he was bent at almost a right angle from the waist, drooping like a badly stuffed rag doll. Bleach-blonde muttered an instruction to Biceps, who wordlessly hauled him up into his arms; supporting his full weight as easily as if he were a small child. 

[Ghastly. His skin. Can smell it. Sebum and bacon and old sweat and petrol and…. Hand on back of my neck. No. NO! John. Only John’s hand is allowed there. Bastard grinning at my face. Hand on mouth oh _vile_ John kissed my mouth six hours forty three minutes ago and now these disgusting fingers touching it sick feel so- ]

Once outside the bedroom all three men fell silent, their footsteps on the stone floors measured and careful. The younger tattooed man led the way, something in his gait suggesting both nerves and cockiness. He twirled his hunting knife deftly between the fingers of his right hand and repeatedly glanced in all directions, despite Sherlock’s bedroom being located at the furthest end of the corridor. Sherlock watched him through the one eye he could still manage to keep open, taking in the practiced spin of the knife in his hand. [New knife. Wants to use it. Violet. Patrick. Don’t hear us. _Don’t hear us_. Get me out. No sound. Going quietly, see…?]

His eye slid closed under the crushing weight of sedation, and it was several seconds before Sherlock could muster the strength to open it once more. [What _is_ this? 

Awful. Awful. Benzodiazepine base? Not the nice kind though. 

C16H14ClN3O? Not just that though. Something else too. C13H16ClNO? Mmm.. possible. Would be interesting to observe own symptoms. Too foggy now.]

The footsteps of the man carrying him jolted his bones, reverberating sickeningly through his frame. He could feel saliva oozing freely from the corner of his mouth, and it was gratifying in a small way that he was probably getting it all over Biceps’ horrible fingers and wrist. He battled against the growing fog that was filling his mind, but his thoughts were becoming more and more disordered. They were flying out of their correct positions and scattering, dancing out of reach or disappearing through the cracks or reassembling in a way that made no sense at all. Having his eyes closed seemed to be hastening the descent into chaos, and with a tremendous wrench he forced himself to open his left eye once more. 

Wolf tattoo was now at the head of the staircase, waiting impatiently for his colleagues to catch up. He was mouthing something, making a gesture that was an unmistakable entreaty to speed up. Bleach blonde was overtaking Sherlock and Biceps and was now looking clearly annoyed at the presumption but he said nothing. [Hmm. Man in charge? For now. How long…]

He was too busy watching the silent conversation between Bleach blonde and the sulky looking Wolf Tattoo to notice the door casually swinging open to their right. It only entered his consciousness when he felt Biceps stop dead. The mans hands tightened before he rapidly stepped backwards, out of the line of sight available from the doorframe. Sherlock’s eye widened, feebly grabbing at his captor’s arm in a weak struggle. [No. No-]

The heavy wooden door was moving again, a swift attempt to push it shut from the inside. 

“Leave him!” Bleach blonde hissed. _“Bon sang_ Narek-!”

But Wolf Tattoo was already darting forwards, a filthy little grin on his narrow face. His left arm thumped forwards, smashing the door wide open once more. His right was swinging up from his side, the knife sweeping in a wide arc through the air. 

“Stop. _Now.”_ Biceps ordered him sharply, as Sherlock swung his legs feebly, writhing in a vain attempt to get free. The thick arms tightened further around him, fingers digging warningly into the flesh of his thigh, hard enough to bruise through the soft fabric of his pajamas. Sherlock dimly registered his flesh crawling at the touch, but his attention was riveted on Patrick’s bedroom door. His trussed hands clutched convulsively at the sweater he was still holding against his chest, listening feverishly. 

Bleach-blonde was standing at the threshold of the bedroom, staring in irritation at whatever was going on. He reached around under the hem of his unzipped jacket, and took hold of the gun tucked into the back of his trousers. “Narek. Come!” 

The sound of shattering glass, and a heavy thump. Narek emerged from the room, glaring at his boss. 

“We should finish him!” he insisted angrily, squaring up to Bleach-blonde.

“No time.” Bleach-blonde hissed, waving him on with the barrel of his gun. “You can have some fun with this one later. Get going!”

With a poor grace, Narek started walking again; glancing moodily down the staircase before beginning his descent into the great hall below. Sherlock exhaled heavily, feeling weak with relief; the thump must have been Patrick hitting the floor after being knocked out. The blade that Narek was still carrying had caught the light from a nearby window, sharp and blessedly clean. He craned his head as they passed the doorway, catching sight of Patrick stirring slowly on the carpet, surrounded by the remains of a broken lamp. Sherlock couldn’t see his face from this angle, but spied Patrick’s feet sliding along the floor, his body turning as he began to struggle to his feet. 

[No! Idiot. Stay down. Down!] Sherlock watched in fury as Patrick pushed himself up off the floor. The young man was panting as he pushed his tangled hair out of his face; and his eyes widened as he caught sight of Sherlock being carelessly carried by the huge man. [Stop it! Stopitstopitstop-]

Patrick’s hand had closed around a heavy silver candlestick on a nearby low table. He darted forwards, swinging it high above his head. His face was almost unrecognisable, furious, eyes narrowed as he threw himself towards the man carrying Sherlock.

Biceps stopped suddenly, turning his head at the noise of Patrick’s footsteps. In a split second, he had dropped Sherlock to the floor and had reached for his own weapon; concealed in a holster under his left arm. He advanced into the room without a word, leaving Sherlock gasping on the stone floor in pain and horror. He only dimly heard the gunshot, but the noise seemed to echo around his head endlessly, rolling and reverberating like a dropped coin. [No. No. NO.]

Biceps emerged once more, his face expressionless. He hauled Sherlock up into his arms once more, before draping him carelessly over one muscular shoulder. Sherlock’s breath was hitching in his chest, dark spots swimming in and out of his vision. [Patrick. Twenty-seven. Loves… loved my brother. No. Gone.] 

Somewhere on the descent into the main hall, he finally drifted away. He was almost grateful.


	2. Chapter 2

He drifted in and out of consciousness as he was carried and dragged from the house. An indeterminate amount of time passed, marked mainly by changes in temperature and the light that filtered through his eyelids. Acute horripilation. Sound swirled around him, alternately discordant and soothing. Snatches of an argument. Shouts and a sudden, jarring flurry of movement. He was disembodied, not quite floating but felt somehow that if his transport was propelled quickly enough through space, his mind would be left behind, a trailing comet. 

Brief, stabbing pain in his upper arm. The pressure of impatient hands, pressing against him, pushing and pushing harder. Idly, he wondered if they would sink right through his frame. His skin felt like warm plasticine, weirdly and horribly elastic. He could feel it moulding, forming deep impressions around large brutish hands. 

A brief, hellish surge towards lucidity. [Impatient. Marseille. Bleach blonde]

“-already behind time. Schneider, will you hurry up!” 

The response was lost as he sank deeper into the dark, treacle-thick stupor. A small, persistent part of him continued to struggle against the rolling narcotic fog but it was weakening steadily. [John. _John isn’t safe!_ He isn’t- John!]

“What is he saying, Bruno? He should have had enough to kill a horse by now-“

“Narek, take care of it.”

A sharp, crawling prickle against his rippling scalp; fingers tightening and twisting in his hair. [No. NO!] The pain intensified, the horror building. His limbs thrashed feebly, but he barely knew which direction they travelled in. 

Scent of spearmint gum, chewing loudly. [From somewhere hidden and shadowy, the darkest recesses of the Mind Palace: _Daddy’s had enough now!_ ]

“Oh. He doesn’t like that!”

“Narek, this is not the time. Stop fucking around; I said you could amuse yourself with him later.”

A final, brutal wrench. Sherlock could almost hear the strain, each strand of hair stretching and whining like an overstressed violin string. The butt of a pistol collided with the side of his temple and reverberated endlessly, the force of the blow spinning his head on his lolling neck. The blackness seeped across his vision in a leisurely flood, blooming and swirling before extinguishing the last of the lights in his mind palace. But not before he felt the gentle pressure of the hunting knife settling inside the curve of his ear. 

***

John was distantly amazed with the way his hands continued to work, when all the while his mind was seething with shock and utter horror. Patrick’s choked whisper kept rolling around in his mind. 

( _I couldn’t stop them. Forgive me, John. He’s gone. Gone. Gone. Gonegonegonegonegonegone. He’s gone._ )

His palms were hot and sticky with Patrick’s blood; it kept welling up richly, seeping between his fingers despite the makeshift compress against the wound in his side. (Gunshot. I can smell it now, it’s in the air along with the blood. Sherlock, where the fuck is Sherlock did she do this oh god don’t let him die Sherlock’s _gone!_ )

Patrick was blinking achingly slowly, long dark lashes settling like moths wings on his ashen cheeks. John could almost see the shock seeping through his system, and he bent close to Patrick’s anguished face, feeling his laboured breath against his cheek. 

“Patrick, you need to focus. I know it hurts like hell but you’ve got to stay awake as long as you can. Don’t give in to it, understand?” he ordered him firmly, pressing on the wound a little harder with one hand as he delved in his back pocket for his phone. 

(No coverage, _fuck!_ ) 

He stared around, finally locating the ancient black Bakelite telephone on the desk. He grabbed hold of Patrick’s shaking hand and shoved it against the wound roughly, holding on until he was sure the man could keep the compress in place. It wasn’t enough pressure, not by half; and John tore across the room and grabbed the telephone off the blotter, dragging the cable behind him and back to where Patrick lay, the blood seeping and spreading into the carpet like some horrible mockery of a halo. He dialled emergency services, fingers tangling stupidly with the old rotary wheel as his other hand pushed Patrick’s hand away and resumed pressure. When his call was answered, he gave details of the situation as briefly as possible. It was only after he’d dropped the receiver that it occurred to him that he should have requested police as well. 

“How… how long?” Patrick murmured, the hoarse whisper startling John out of his horrified stupor. His chest was hitching shallowly, sweat beading his creased forehead.

John swallowed hard. “Soon. I promise they’ll be here soon, Patrick. Don’t try to talk; just focus on staying awake.”

Patrick gave him a long, worryingly thoughtful look from under half-closed eyelids. It occurred to John that perhaps Patrick had actually intended to ask how much time he had left to live. 

“Go, John….” he swallowed hard, the agony making him gasp several times. “You can’t… don’t waste time here.”

“I can’t.” John said helplessly, torn. (And you _know_ you can’t. They said as soon as possible but who the hell knows what that actually means, out here?)

But shamefully, almost every fibre of his being was screaming at him to go, to run, to get after Sherlock as fast as he could. Patrick might die anyway; but every second could count for chasing after Sherlock. And while John would mourn Patrick; he knew there was no way to survive losing Sherlock again. It was an impossibility; there was only so much loss a heart could take. 

Patrick took another ragged breath, his hand blindly reaching for John’s blood-smeared knee. “Three of them. Blonde. French and eastern… European? Knife and a tattoo… dog? Sherlock, he was being carried by the man… bald.. he shot-“

John realised that Patrick was doing his best to tell him as much as possible while he still could. That Patrick could feel himself on the cusp of death and still he was going to give John as much help as he could. (Oh god. He said that _he couldn’t stop them_. He tried to stop whoever took Sherlock. Patrick tried to save him and he’s still trying to save him, while he’s bleeding out under my hands….)

The heavy sound of a door slamming open in the distance, and a drumming, staccato rhythm. John froze, his pulse somehow accelerating even more. He cast a glance around, attempting to spot something, anything that would serve as a weapon. 

He almost sagged with relief when he heard Violet’s breathless shout. “John! Patrick! Is anyone up here?” 

“In here!”

When she entered, Violet’s face was white as a sheet, scars livid against her bloodless freckled skin. She looked beyond fury, until she caught sight of Patrick lying motionless on the floor. 

“Fuck. Okay. Hang on.” She darted to the bed and grabbed several pillows and a heavy blanket. Within seconds she had wrenched one of the pillowcases off and folded it into a thick square before holding it out to John. He carefully swapped the shirt for the fresh compress, moving as swiftly as he could. Violet inhaled sharply at the immediate swell of blood from the wound, her eyes taking in every detail. She gave John a loaded glance of inquiry, as she carefully draped the blanket over Patrick, her small hands coming to rest on his trembling shoulders. 

“He’s been shot; fairly sure the bullet’s lodged in the large intestine. Emergency services are on their way. Sherlock’s…. Sherlock’s gone.”

“I know.” Violet replied sharply. “Give me your phone.”

“No coverage.”

“Doesn’t matter.” she snapped impatiently, roughly grabbing it out of his pocket before beginning to scroll through the numbers. A second later she seized hold of the discarded Bakelite telephone that lay on the carpet and began dialling feverishly, her gaze intent and her fingers absolutely steady. When her call was connected Violet spoke over the person who answered at once, her tone forceful and full of steel. 

“No. You will shut up and listen. Sherlock’s gone. Patrick’s been shot. Fucking well get some people here and _help._ ” 

She listened to the response for perhaps five seconds, and hung up abruptly. “That’ll probably be quicker. Patrick… hold tight, my love. Mycroft’s on his way and he’s bringing help.”

It wasn’t clear whether or not Patrick was taking in her words, but he was gazing at her through clouded eyes; taking in her every move. She leant forward and kissed his forehead, sweeping his tangled hair out of the way and smoothing it through his fingers. Violet’s eyes swam briefly with unshed tears as she touched him, before turning resolutely towards John. 

“I’m afraid they’re properly gone. I caught sight of the land rover turning out of the drive a couple of minutes ago. Three figures, the one in the back struggling a bit with a bundle that I’m assuming was Sherlock.”

“Did you see which way they went?”

“North, that’s all I can say.” Violet said, with a clearly forced calm. “But there are only so many roads that lead in that direction from here. With so much snow on the ground they won’t get far. Mycroft’ll be able to track them soon, I’m sure of it. John, we will _not_ lose him. We’ve just got to keep it together until the troops arrive.”

“Was Mary with them?” John asked helplessly. “She’s behind this. Christ I’m such an idiot! What the hell was I thinking, going out into the grounds with her?” 

“Shut up, that doesn’t help!” Violet said sharply. “And we don’t need to worry about her just yet. I was too late to do anything to stop the bastards who took Sherlock. But when you’ve got a moment free, you might want to pop down to the larder. There’s an extremely cross assassin with what I hope is a _very_ bad headache locked up in there. I’ll bet she’s just _dying_ to have a word.” 

***

It seemed eons, but it was probably only ten minutes before they heard the heavy thrum of the first approaching helicopter. Violet bolted from the room, haring down the corridor at lightning speed to lead the RAF medics back to Patrick’s room. By the time they entered the room, John was sweating and panting from the effort of continuing CPR while maintaining pressure on the wound. Patrick was fully unconscious and his pulse was flickering erratically. He had to force himself to let go of Patrick’s limp wrist, to shuffle aside and make room. 

A tense, middle-aged man who was dressed in tweeds but was clearly military to his core pushed him firmly away and bent to examine the wound. His brow furrowed as he took in the extent of the damage, but he began to snap orders at his subordinate at once; holding out his hands for a surgical compress and watching as Patrick was swiftly intubated. 

“I’m assuming you are Captain Watson. I’d appreciate it if you could leave us to our work, sir.” 

John bristled slightly at this, but he was too distracted and on edge to care too much. He nodded briefly and got stiffly to his feet, wiping the perspiration from his face with his sleeve. He dimly felt a hand that he supposed was Violet’s, slipping into his own. She tugged at his arm and pulled him out of the door. His last glimpse of Patrick was blurred, the men’s hands darting feverishly over his bloody, motionless form. A third medic arrived and began to set up an IV before deftly inserting a cannula into Patrick’s wrist. 

(Are they too late? There’s every bloody god damned chance that they’re too late and Sherlock’s gone he’s gone he’s fucking gone and I’m not with him and he fucking believes that he’s on his own again, that he’s not enough, that I’d want her and another life without him. I could tell he really believed that and I left him alone rather than staying to talk sense into him. Some fuckers came and took him and god knows what they’re doing to him right now. There’s no way he’d go quietly without a fight. He should’ve been able to fight off three men, what fucking _happened_?)

Violet’s hand connected with his cheek smartly, the force of the slap making his head spin and his feverish thoughts scatter. He stared at her, taking in her furious face and the way she was massaging the blood back into her hand. 

“Sorry. Sorry. But we can’t start panicking just yet. There’s no bloody _time,_ John. We will get him back. They’re not going to hurt him; they took him for a reason. They had no problem putting a bullet in Patrick. If they were planning on killing him, they would have just done it. Sherlock’s been in tight spots before, he can handle himself.”

John took a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to recognise the truth in her words. “Yeah. Okay.” he swallowed hard, willing the nausea away. “And we’ve got Mary, too. Did she say anything to you?”

“Mm.” Violet shook her head and smiled grimly. She took his arm and began to walk towards the head of the stairs. “No, not really. Wasn’t much time. Do you have a gun, by any chance? Best to be prepared, I suspect.”

John nodded tightly, and darted back to retrieve his Walther from the locked drawer in the bedroom. When he re-joined Violet, he opened his mouth to ask her about exactly how she had managed to lock Mary into the larder, but the words died in his throat when the front door in the great hall below burst open below. 

Mycroft strode in, a flurry of snowflakes sweeping into the hall over his shoulders. His face was blank, his eyes wide. He wore no coat over his usual three piece suit and his hands were bare, clenched and stiff at his sides. He glanced around the room fitfully, and once he spotted John and Violet standing on the landing above Mycroft immediately made for the wide stone stairs.

He moved faster than John had ever seen him, his feet flying up the wide staircase. It seemed odd, wrong somehow – despite Mycroft’s thin hawkish frame, his movements were always slow and ponderous. The way he pounded up the stairs towards them spoke more of his panic than words ever could. He stopped dead in front of John and Violet, his eyes flickering over their bloodstained hands and clothes; their no doubt shell-shocked expressions. 

“They’re looking after him, in there.” Violet said quietly, after a pause. She gestured towards the door of Patrick’s room, which still stood a little ajar. “We’ll be in the kitchen.”

Mycroft nodded once, his eyes lingering briefly on her small hands, her red-streaked fingers. “I will join you shortly.”

Without another word, he began to walk towards the door; his spine rigid. He seemed to be forcing himself to walk the final few yards, and John watched with a kind of ghastly curiosity as Mycroft hesitated on the threshold of Patrick’s bedroom; two of his long clever fingers tracing the dark carved wood gently before pushing the door open. 

“Who the hell are you?” he heard Violet ask distractedly from a few steps below. 

He turned swiftly and spied the familiar form of Anthea coming through the front door, her mobile phone pressed to her ear and a frown on her face. He jogged down the final few steps with Violet, who had crossed her arms and was glaring at Anthea suspiciously. Anthea was dressed unusually casually in dark blue cashmere and jeans. She wore no coat or gloves, and snowflakes powdered her beautiful dark hair and the shoulders of her sweater. She held up a finger, not meeting their eyes or answering Violet’s question.

“His PA.” he murmured, and felt her relax a fraction at his side. 

“-no, that’s not acceptable. Scramble them from Peterhead if necessary. Clearance level eight, passcode four nine two zero sierra hotel-“

Anthea rattled off several more unintelligible commands, before hanging up abruptly. She turned to Violet, gave her a quick up and down stare and then focussed on John. “Doctor Watson. I need details, at once.”

“Three men, in a dark grey land rover. They’ve taken Sherlock, and headed north. I didn’t see them…” John paused, forcing himself to marshal his thoughts. “Patrick tried to tell me- he said that one of them was blonde and another was bald. He thought one was French and another was eastern European of some kind. Something about a tattoo and a dog?” he trailed off, feeling more than useless. “Shit, this is nothing. This is useless. We’ve got to get after them, Anthea!”

“I’m attempting to arrange satellite surveillance of the area. The RAF are being utilised at the moment, but it will take some time to organise an aerial search. It’s new year’s day: many personnel are still on leave.”

“They’re in a damn car. I’m going to take Patrick’s jeep and get after them.”

“That’s a rather imprecise way of tracing Mr. Holmes.” Anthea pointed out, clearly choosing to ignore his growing impatience. “I’ve looked at maps of the area and I’ve calculated that there are over twenty roads that they could have turned onto by now. Thirty three, if they decided to cut across a few fields.”

“I’ve got to do something. I can’t just hang around here and wait; he’s getting further and further away every minute-“

“Yes, and we’ll get more done by talking to the bitch in the pantry, John.” Violet interrupted him. She turned to Anthea and gave her a challenging look. “I locked up his ex-wife in the kitchen. I reckon she’ll be able to tell us a thing or two about where they’re headed. You any good at interrogation?”

“Oh, adequate.” Anthea replied, with the faintest glimmer of a smile. “Do lead on.”

***

They could hear Mary long before they entered the kitchen. As soon as Violet pushed open the green baize door that led down towards the old servants quarters, a heavy thudding noise became apparent. John looked at Violet questioningly.

“Don’t worry. That bolt will withstand a lot, and I jammed a chair under the doorknob, just to be on the safe side. I also took a gun and a couple of knives off her before I dragged her in.”

“Violet, she’s a bloody assassin!” John hissed. “She could have killed you!”

“Well all I can say is that she must be having an off day.” Violet replied tartly. “I saw the land rover taking off down the driveway from my bedroom window upstairs. Just as it turned the corner out of the drive, I saw her sneaking round the corner of the house, ducking under the window sills and carrying a frankly ostentatious handgun. She seemed to be heading in the direction of the river. So I grabbed the first thing that came to hand, which turned out to be a half-size marble bust of Sir Walter Scott and dropped it on her head as she passed under my window. Out like a light. It was obvious there was something fishy afoot, so I thought it was the best course of action. I was fairly sure you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not in the bloody slightest.” John muttered. His heart was thudding sickeningly in his chest, and he felt almost nauseous with anxiety and fury. He clenched his fist by his side, forcing himself to take several long, deep breaths. He wasn’t remotely ready to face Mary, not after the way she had misled him earlier. And especially not now that he knew she was part of a scheme to take Sherlock away from him. He had once loved her, or at least he had loved the person he believed was Mary Morstan. There were still tiny, fractured parts of him that ached at the memory of her laugh or the way she used to catch his eye in a crowd, back before she had shot Sherlock. Before she had lied, and lied and _lied_ and torn his life to tattered shreds. He had come to be grateful for the reasonably quiet ending to their marriage. He had never expected to hear from her or see her ever again, had been more than happy to let the memory of her fade, locked away in a box in the back of his mind. Along with the idea of his Caroline, who had never existed.

Caroline. She could have used anything else to draw him away, to distract him. But Mary chose to use that, the thing that she must have known wounded him; the injury that had flayed him raw. It was that fact that left him clenching his jaw, hesitating on the threshold of the kitchen. Only the idea of Sherlock, being carried further and further away every second propelled him into the kitchen. 

“Murdy!” Violet gasped, drawing him out of his fugue. John’s gaze flew to the kitchen table, where Murdy Antonelli was sitting bolt upright, her gaze trained on the rattling pantry door. Her large dark eyes were wide, her expression thoughtful more than alarmed. A second later, John realised that a large handgun and two viciously sharp knives were laid out on the scarred wooden surface of the table in front of her. Without even consciously thinking about it, he swiftly reached for the weapons and removed them from her reach; which earned him a deeply patronising look from the girl. 

“Murdy, you need to go. Now.”

“What’s going on?” she asked interestedly, hoisting her feet onto the edge of her chair and hugging her bony knees. “Who’ve you got locked up?”

“Someone you should never, ever meet. Seriously, Murdy.” John didn’t feel capable of making up a placating lie, and he doubted she’d believe anything he made up. “I mean it. Go home, now.”

“He’s right, beastie. Go home, this instant.” Violet agreed. “This is no place for you.”

“Where’s Mister Holmes?” Murdy asked, her curious expression ebbing and turning into vague alarm. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Murdy, go. Now.” John said, tightly.

Murdy’s spine straightened, and she stared around the group, taking in their tense faces and the way Anthea had hastily begun to consult a new alert on her blackberry. “Where. Is. He?”

“Out. NOW!” John shouted, his hand flying out and pointing towards the kitchen door. “For fucks sake we don’t have time for this!”

Murdy stared at him, wide-eyed and motionless. Violet winced slightly, but said nothing. The thudding door of the pantry stilled abruptly, silence settling heavily through the room. John inhaled deeply, and shut his eyes. 

“Where is he?” Murdy asked again, her voice almost steady. “Where’s Mister Holmes?”

“Some people have taken him.” Violet said, quietly, eventually. “We don’t know where. There’s a woman in there who probably has a clue and she’s dangerous as hell Murdy. I know you want to be here. I know you think you can help. But you need to leave, now. I’m sorry, Murdy. But that’s the way it is. This is too dangerous by half. You can help by going home and letting us sort this out, that’s all.”

Murdy’s mouth was slightly open, her fingers clutching tightly at her knees. Her knuckles against the dark fabric of her jeans were white and taut. Eventually, she nodded and got to her feet. She opened her mouth to respond, and shut it again before turning to face John. She completely surprised him by darting forward and wrapping her long, thin arms around his torso, roughly pinning his arms to his side as she hugged him clumsily, fast and tight.

“Get him back, please.” she stepped back after less than a second, and glared furiously up at him. He looked down at her helplessly, unable to marshal his thoughts enough to respond. 

And with that, Murdy turned and made her way out of the kitchen door, letting it close quietly behind her. He watched her pass by the window, and met her worried eyes briefly through the old warped glass. Within a second she had faded into the falling snow, her shoulders hunched against the cold. 

Violet let out a long breath, and sighed before turning towards the pantry door. She picked up the handgun John had placed on one of the high shelves of the dresser, and released the safety with an unexpected ease. Anthea watched her with interest, sliding her phone back into the pocket of her jeans. Violet caught his eye.

“Alright. Ready, John?”

(No. Not fucking remotely.)

He nodded, and slid the Walther from the waistband of his jeans. “Ready. Open it.”


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Violet had slid back the heavy iron bolt to the larder and removed the chair from beneath the handle, Mary had taken several paces back into the small dark room. She was half in shadow, standing in an attitude that could almost be mistaken as nonchalant and relaxed. Only the faint creases in her forehead and her curled fists belied her tension. Violet stood well back from the door, taking a long look at Mary. She didn’t point her gun at the woman in the larder, but she made sure that it was visible at her side. 

Despite her attempt to appear relaxed, Mary looked more than a little battered and dishevelled. Her familiar old blue hat was gone, and John was absurdly relieved by this tiny detail. It was one less link to their shared past. Three thin trails of dark, drying blood were visible at one side of Mary’s temple, and smeared where she had evidently wiped her fingers through the mess. Her short grey coat was crumpled and wet, as were her jean and boots. With an effort John forced himself to meet her eyes, which were stony. She didn’t say anything, merely looking back at him with a kind of wary impatience. 

“Well there goes last years’ preserves,” Violet observed flatly, taking in several large smashed glass jars on the floor and the accompanying sticky mess. John thought that she only said it for the sake of having something to say; until she added: “And you’ll kindly drop that shard of glass you’ve got in your hand, my dear.”

Mary gave Violet an appraising look, before her hand twitched. It had been partly obscured by the open lapel of her coat, and a large, wickedly curving fragment of thick glass smashed on the floor among the remains of the other preserving jars. 

“Take off your coat.” John said quietly. 

“What’s the magic word?” Mary asked, with a faint smile. He knew she could tell how he was trying to keep the depths of his anger suppressed. Her tone was sweet, and entirely calculated to goad him. 

_“Now.”_

“Blouse next? Should I keep my gloves on? Remember that night in the hotel in-“

“Oh, for fucks sake!” Violet snapped. “You’re a miserable excuse for an assassin if you have to stoop to this level of repartee. Get your bloody coat off. Your boots too, while you’re at it. Then you’re going to turn around with your hands up and come out here _extremely_ bloody slowly.”

John forced himself to keep his eyes trained on her, watching her every move. Her false, flirtatious expression had dropped instantly at Violet’s harsh words and with a poor grace she shrugged off her coat; letting it collapse in a heap on the stone floor. She toed off her winter boots, and straightened up to face them once more. She turned in an exaggeratedly slow circle, her hands on either side of her head. John could see more blood now, soaked into the shoulder of her wool sweater. 

He jerked his head shakily towards the kitchen. “Come on. Slowly.”

Mary rolled her eyes and sighed, before picking her way through the mess of sticky ruined fruit and glass on the floor. She paused on the threshold, noticing Anthea for the first time. 

“You’ve got company, I see.” She quirked a smile, catching John’ eye. “Where’s your brother-in-law, John?” 

“Please have a seat.” Anthea said solicitously, pulling out one of the heavy old kitchen chairs. “Mr. Holmes will be joining us before too long, I’m quite sure.”

She stood behind the kitchen chair, her well-manicured hands on either side of the headrest. Mary didn’t move, until Violet sighed and prodded her meaningfully in the small of her back with the Sig. Reluctantly, Mary edged into the chair; evidently uncomfortable at having her back to Anthea. 

“Drawer over there, John. By the door. Should be some duct-tape.” Violet instructed him, leaning back against the kitchen table and giving Mary a long, measuring look. “Best make sure this one isn’t feeling flighty. What’s your real name, anyhow?” she added, turning to Mary. 

John went to the dresser next to the kitchen door, pulling the top drawer open with a creak. It almost felt like a respite, to take his eyes off her for a moment or two. 

“Oh yes, we were never properly introduced, were we? Mrs. Mary Watson, of course. Charmed.”

John’s hand stilled on the handle, watching his fingers pinch white against the wood. He forced himself to stay utterly still, although every atom in his body was urging him to turn and scream at her. Even now, when she had to know that her future could only hold detention (or worse, if Mycroft had anything to do with it), she chose to mock and twist the knife as best she could.

He spun back around at the sound of Violet’s hand connecting with Mary’s face. It wasn’t like the slap she had dealt John earlier; this was a sharp, precise blow that made Mary’s head snap back abruptly. Her eyes widened, but beyond this she didn’t react. 

“Let’s be quite clear, Miss.” Violet said, almost conversationally. “I don’t know you. I don’t give a fuck about you. I’ll hurt you in every way I know how, if it speeds things up. If you give me cheek, if you use this as an excuse to wind John up, I will not hold back. Understood?”

“Oh, please!” Mary half-laughed, reaching up to massage the reddened mark that was swiftly blooming on her cheek. “Do you honestly think I’d be afraid of you?”

“Mm, I rather think that I would be, in your place.” Anthea murmured in a disinterested tone, taking the roll of duct tape from John’s unresisting fingers. She found the end of the roll and noisily pulled out a long strip of the tape. “By the way, keep your hands on the arm rests at all times. Thanks so much.”

“It’ll make it so much easier for us to break your fingers when the times comes.” Violet pointed out, cheerfully pressing the barrel of the Sig to Mary’s temple while Anthea got to work with the tape. “And in case you’re wondering, breaking fingers is something I’ve got experience in. It’s been a while since I used a gun, too. But it’s all coming back to me now. Isn’t sense memory a marvellous thing?”

“Where are they taking him?” John asked bluntly, pulling out a chair on the other side of the table and taking a seat. 

“Damned if I know. Nice choice of seat, incidentally.” Mary smiled grimly. “Are you over there because you’re going to sit back and let someone else do your dirty work? Or are you trying to resist joining in?”

John didn’t respond, merely folding his arms and looking at her expectantly. He felt vaguely grateful that he had plenty of experience in not reacting when her comments hit their target. And honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure which statement was true. He didn’t want to hurt her. He never wanted to see her again, he wanted her gone with every fibre of his being. He just needed to know whatever information she had, and then he wanted her gone. He didn’t particularly care how. 

(But let’s face it, you don’t care if Violet slaps her around some more. You really, really don’t. She deserves it, and more. She put a bullet in Sherlock. She stopped his heart. She let you believe in a future and then she decided to tear it away from you. And she just did it again. She steals and she lies and she fucking _kills._ She’s bloody poison. And part of you is scared that you’d enjoy hurting her. So you’re not going to do it. But if someone else needs to hurt her in order to find out where Sherlock’s gotten to… you’re not going to stop them, are you? And that’s no better, not really. You know it isn’t. But it doesn’t change anything.) 

Mary held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed; as if he were being particularly difficult. “Look. Whatever you might think, John… this isn’t personal. I don’t give a damn about Sherlock.”

“I think that much was clear when you shot him in the chest.” John replied tightly. “I don’t care about your motivations. Where is he?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Mary caught Violet’s eye as she raised her hand again, and quickly added, _“Really._ That wasn’t any of my business. My involvement was over the second they got him out of the house.”

“Christ, you expect us to believe that?” John asked, leaning towards her. His blood was seething in his veins, and he was having to make a conscious effort to keep his voice steady. ”You’re a fucking _professional,_ Mary. You’d want to know more than that. And don’t tell me that this wasn’t personal. No matter what you think, I’m not an idiot.”

“Mmmm…” Mary cocked her head to one side, and gave him a cheeky grin that was so achingly familiar, that had once been so dear, it almost made him wince. “If you say so. But you were pretty quick to believe me about little Caroline earlier, I must say. Anyone else would have wanted some paperwork. Some concrete evidence. But you? All it took was the mere mention of the name-“

Violet didn’t hesitate this time. She seized hold of a handful of Mary’s hair and twisted sharply, holding tight until the bound woman cried out. “I think we’re digressing slightly, don’t you?”

Anthea moved away from behind Mary’s chair, moving in an almost aimless fashion towards the high shelf where the knives were still tucked away. She reached up casually and took hold of one of the handles, slowly inspecting the gleaming blade. She glanced up at the faces that had followed her progress across the room and waved an apologetic hand. 

“Sorry, don’t let me distract you. Carry on.”

She leant against the tall welsh dresser and inspected the knife curiously, pressing her fingertip gently against the point. Violet gave Mary a thoughtful smile and tightened her grip minutely. 

“Funny, isn’t it? Pulling hair seems like such a stupid, petty way to hurt someone. And it is. It’s usually not that painful. But when you maintain the grip for any length of time, it begins to ache, doesn’t it? The human scalp is such a tender thing. So many points of pressure, so many nerve endings. This spot right _here_ is particularly sensitive, as I recall. Human hair is incredibly strong. Stronger than steel actually, in terms of tensile strength. Thousands of strands, each one of them pulling and _pulling_ ….”

Her tone was almost conversational, but something in her eyes frightened John in a way that he would have been unable to put into words. Violet was intent, bending over Mary and looking into her watering eyes unblinkingly. He had always been aware that Violet had dark corners. Her breezy, cheerful, occasionally scatty personality was something that had always charmed him. But on occasion, he had wondered just how much of it was truly _her_ ; just how far down into her personality or soul did the familiar, exterior Violet extend? 

(She told you, didn’t she? Ages ago. _He pulled some of my hair out at the roots_. She knows. She knows just how much this hurts. He did it to her and now she’s choosing to do it to someone else. This is so incredibly fucked up and I’ve no idea what the alternative is. Oh god, if only Sherlock was here. He’d know what to do! He wouldn’t want this, he wouldn’t want her to do this for him…)

“Miss Vernet, I daresay your wrist must be getting tired by now.” Anthea interjected, just as John was about to tell Violet to stop. “Time is growing short, and while your approach certainly has it’s appeal; I don’t think it’s particularly efficient.”

“Well, I was warming up to shooting her in the knee.” Violet explained, reluctantly letting go of Mary’s hair and watching her sag slightly. John risked a look at Mary’s face, which was taut and blank. She hadn’t uttered a sound after the initial cry she had given when Violet seized her hair; but he could tell that keeping silent had cost her a considerable effort. 

Violet stepped back from Mary, making way for Anthea who took a seat in front of her. She looked for all the world like she was merely sitting down at the beginning of a particularly dreary meeting at Whitehall. She crossed her legs and sighed, carelessly putting down the knife on the kitchen table next to her. Mary’s eyes narrowed slightly as she took in Anthea’s bored expression, but she didn’t say anything. 

“We’ve only met once before, but you know who I am.” Anthea observed calmly. “You know who I work for. And you also know that time is of the essence here. I’m sure you’re finding it amusing to bait Doctor Watson here. It’s clear that you’re playing for time; that the longer you obfuscate, the further away those gentlemen get.

“What you might not be aware of, though; is that I’ve had quite a lot of training with individuals such as yourself. Miss Vernet here, she’s enthusiastic but something of an amateur…” she caught Violet’s eye and gave her a small, apologetic smile. Violet waved her hand dismissively, and gestured for Anthea to continue. 

She smiled politely, and reached forward towards her prisoner. Mary flinched instinctively, as Anthea’s beautifully manicured thumb and forefinger took hold of the collar of her sweater and pulled it away from her body. The knife suddenly flashed in the air, slitting the front of the garment from neck to hem so quickly it was barely visible as it moved. 

Both sides of the black garment slid limply aside, flapping to either side of Mary’s torso in shreds. Anthea replaced the blade neatly on the table, a tiny smile flickering at the corner of her mouth as she took in the way Mary’s eyes widened and her chest heaved convulsively. “Sorry about that. Quite a nice sweater, but you won’t be needing it where you’re going to end up. That’ll be Yemen, by the way. I’ve seen the file and there are quite a few senior officials in the government who are _really_ looking forward to your extradition.” 

As she talked, the pad of her right thumb travelled the length of Mary’s neck in a precise, impersonal way. It was rather like the touch of a physician right up until the moment her hand travelled in a smooth curve around to the dip of her shoulder blade and suddenly pressed hard. Mary drew breath loudly, her posture rigid. She bowed her head abruptly until her chin was pressed to her chest; her knees trembling convulsively. John shut his eyes and gripped the edge of the table, forcing himself to ignore the harsh rasp of Mary’s pained breaths. 

“So, any further thoughts on where they might be?” Anthea asked, conversationally. She wasn’t even looking at Mary, her gaze travelling around the cavernous kitchen with a kind of vague curiosity. 

“I…don’t…know!” Mary gasped. “Stop!”

“Incorrect answer, I’m afraid.” Anthea said, relaxing the pressure of her fingertips for perhaps a second before digging them back into the same spot. Mary cried out, the sound seeming almost ripped from her throat. She had clearly been trying her best to remain silent; but the nerves that Anthea was unerringly focussing on must have been erupting with increasing pain. 

“Mary, just tell us where they are!” John hissed, his hands aching from the way he was gripping the table edge. He forced himself to look up, to take in the agonised bow of her body. “There’s no point in this!”

“There certainly isn’t.” Mycroft said quietly, appearing in the doorway. Anthea dropped her hand immediately and stood as he entered. Her usual languid expression cracked a little as she looked at her employer, one of her hands making an odd little movement towards him. At first glance, Mycroft was as composed and calm as ever; the lines of his suit almost perfect. As he turned to look around the shadowy kitchen, however, John noticed a wide streak of blood on his neck and along the side of his ear. His starched white collar was stained with it, the dark red seeping into the fine cotton. This somehow seemed so much worse than the stains on Violet’s and John’s hands and clothes. 

“Anthea, that will be all.” Mycroft said shortly, swiftly glancing around at Violet and John before making his way over to where Mary was restrained. 

“Very good, sir.” Anthea said at once, stepping aside. 

“Please go and check on the progress of the satellite imagery request.” Mycroft added, taking her seat. He sat down heavily and crossed his long legs, looking into Mary’s twisted face. “Ms. Morstan, I rather think that the time for games is over. You cannot have much to gain from this performance. Where is my brother?”

“I don’t… know. Really!”

“Then tell me exactly what you do know about this fiasco.” Mycroft said, his tone flat and cold. “You know very well that after you shot Sherlock, I only permitted you to remain in this country on the condition that you lived quietly and strictly within the bounds of the law. I only agreed to that, because he misguidedly pleaded on your behalf. That arrangement is at an end. Your only choice now is between detention in a nice, secure facility here in the United Kingdom where you will be afforded every comfort available. Or, as Anthea mentioned, a rather more _exciting_ trip to Yemen. Where the head of the security forces and the secretary of state will be awaiting you most eagerly, in light of your activities there in 2011 and 2013. Your stay there would undoubtedly be shorter; but rather more eventful than remaining in this country. I have the relevant paperwork already filled out for that option, incidentally.”

Mycroft gave her a long, cold stare before leaning forward. “May I suggest you begin talking?”

Mary was still and silent, the colour draining from her face. Whatever she had expected Mycroft to say, that hadn’t been it. John wondered for perhaps the thousandth time about the contents of that memory stick. Whether he had been right to destroy it, unexamined. At the time it had seemed like the right thing to do; he had felt that ignoring her past was the only way they could move forward. But whatever Mycroft was referring to was clearly damning in the extreme. And it was probably just one out of dozens, possibly hundreds of jobs that Mary had undertaken. Her eyes flickered to his face, as if she had heard his thoughts and he felt his mouth curl into a vicious, humourless smile. 

(Yes. Yes, I heard the dates. 2013. When we chose the house. When we planned our lives together. When did you do it? That conference in Leeds? Your school reunion? I don’t fucking _care_ anymore, Mary. Nothing about you surprises me any more.)

“It wasn’t personal.” Mary repeated quietly. “I needed the money. Badly.”

“So you decided to sell my brother.” Mycroft said flatly. Only those who knew him would have picked up the undercurrent in his tone, the thread of anger that ran through his words. “Elaborate, please.”

“I…” Mary swallowed hard, and stared at the dark stone slabs of the kitchen floor. “I approached some people that I knew he had dealt with in the past. I have some contacts who told me about some of the things he did, while he was away. And I knew that some of the people he’d been up against would like to get their hands on him, given the opportunity.”

“Which people, exactly?”

“I, um. I approached several people. Some in France, Armenia, Turkey, the US… I told them that I’d be able to get them close enough to him. To be able to take him.”

“Ah, I see. You started a bidding war. How very enterprising of you.” Mycroft gave her a thin, pinched smile. “Who won?”

“Um… the Armenian and the French parties. They decided to work together, because they’d had some dealings with each other before.”

“These dealings being-?”

“Heroin, mostly. Some trafficking.” Mary said quietly. 

“Charming. Names?”

“Jacob Trenet in France. His younger brother Bruno was one of the men who was here. Harman in Armenia.”

“Harman is dead!” John hissed, before he was even aware of his mouth opening to speak. His pulse quickened, and he felt suddenly, acutely sick. “Stop this shit! Stop lying!”

Mary’s head had jerked up when he spoke, her expression a little confused at John’s furious tone. Mycroft gave him a quelling look, fingers twitching towards him in a faint admonishing gesture. 

“His brother was killed a few years ago.” Mary said, after a long pause. “I mean Davit Harman. I spoke to him yesterday, he was alive then. He sent his nephew Narek along, as well as another man of his. Schneider. I swear, my involvement was over once I’d drugged the sugar and got John out of the way. I was going to get away separately by boat; I’ve got one tied up along the river.”

“The sugar?” John stared at her, stunned. “Oh my god, of course you did. You organised it so that I’d be the one who drugged him.”

Mary shrugged, unapologetic. “He always did complain that he was the only one who took it these days. I knew you’d bring him up some tea in bed.” she half-smiled. “After all, you used to do it for me.”

John could feel the droplets of sweat beginning to bead his temples and upper lip. He was oddly aware of the blood rushing through his veins. The rage that had been steadily building within him seemed to be reaching a kind of crescendo. He was beyond ordinary anger, filled with a terrible, ghastly calm as he got to his feet and reached for the knife. 

Violet gasped quietly and reached for his arm but he shook her off without looking round.

“And you fucking sold Sherlock to the highest bidder. To people who will think nothing of torturing and murdering him. You say it wasn’t personal but you took him from me again and you have just signed his _death warrant,_ Mary.” 

He stepped closer, the handle of the knife clenched in his fist. Mary’s eyes were calculating as he moved towards her, giving way to real alarm as Mycroft made no attempt to stop him. The elder Holmes merely folded his arms, watching John advance with a faintly curious expression. John couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand seeing her sitting there and calmly admitting to _selling_ the person he loved most in the world. That to her, Sherlock had merely been a commodity. That to her, people were merely things, pieces to be moved around or discarded as she saw fit. Things that she could burn or destroy, with no thought of the wreckage. 

“You sold him.” he repeated. “You _sold_ Sherlock Holmes, like a slave or a piece of meat. Those bastards shot a good man earlier, thanks to you bringing them here. I’ve got his blood all over me still.” John leaned in to Mary, who shrank so far back into her seat it seemed as if she were trying to push through the back of it. Her face was frozen as she looked into his eyes, terrified tears streaming down her cheeks. Somehow the knife had ended up pressed against her throat, and John didn’t even know how it had got there. His hand was perfectly, totally steady. 

“So tell me, Mary or whatever the _fuck_ your name is….” he smiled gently at her. “Tell me exactly why I shouldn’t slit your throat from ear to ear right now. Mycroft isn’t going to stop me, you can tell. Violet, well she said so herself: she doesn’t give a shit about you. God knows I deserve some kind of revenge. And you don’t know where they’ve taken him; so you’re of no bloody use at all to us. Tell me, Mary. Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

He held her anguished gaze for a long moment, leaning so close that his forehead almost touched hers. It was shockingly intimate, their breath mingling. He fancied that he could hear her heart racing, her pulse thrumming against the gleaming steel of the wickedly sharp blade. 

“North.” Mary whispered, her words faint. “There’s a plane waiting for them at Invergordon.”

“There now…” John murmured softly. “Was that so hard?”

Mary shut her eyes, giving her head an infinitesimally small shake. She stifled a small sob. “John… _please_ …”

He could feel every indentation of the ridged knife handle digging into his fingers and across his palm. The terrible darkness that he always did his best to keep locked away in the furthest corners of his mind was roaring at him to push just a tiny bit harder; to slide the blade just a fraction in either direction. 

(She deserves this. She took him away and put him into the hands of people who want to hurt him in ways I don’t ever want to imagine. Whatever I do to her is nothing compared to what he might face. She _deserves_ this.)

He could sense Mycroft sitting nearby, utterly still. He was clearly not going to intervene, no matter what John decided to do. John thought about the broad streak of Patrick’s blood across Mycroft’s collar and neck, and came dizzyingly close again to driving to the knife home. 

“John.” Violet murmured softly. He could feel her palm on the back of his neck, cool against his sweat-drenched skin. He didn’t move or look away, but he felt her bending close to his ear; a lock of her dishevelled hair brushing his shoulder. “John come back to me, old thing. Please.”

He closed his eyes, and let out a long breath. After a long moment, he let his grip on the knife loosen. His hand ached as he let Violet take it from him, feeling the blood rush back in to the indentations it had left on his palm. She handed it wordlessly to Anthea, who was standing motionless by the sink. He felt the pressure of Violet’s hands on his shoulders, pulling him firmly back and away from Mary who was trembling violently, curling in on herself as much as her bonds would allow.

He turned, and stared blearily into Violet’s face. “I would have done it. I wanted to.”

Violet’s mismatched eyes were immensely kind as she squeezed his hand. “And that’s fair enough, laddie. But he wouldn’t want you to do that for him. And you don’t need her to become another one of your nightmares.”

He nodded after a moment or two, before turning to Mycroft. He was already on his feet, conferring with Anthea who was feverishly typing on her blackberry. The knife had mysteriously vanished, as if it had never existed. John risked another look at Mary, who had pulled herself together admirably quickly. She sat there, rigid and silent, glaring at the floor. His crashing rage swelled once more, and he forced himself to turn away; walking blindly to the window and staring outside, making himself look at anything other than the woman in the chair. 

The snow was beginning to fall more thickly, carpeting the scattered gravel of the drive once more. Two helicopters stood outside, their engines silent and cockpits empty. Mist had crept in from the river, slipping slowly and relentlessly across the lawns and hedges of the grounds. The only sign of life was in the sudden flurry of a trio of inky-black crows, ascending from the upper branches of a nearby pine. He watched the incessant fall of heavy flakes, his hot hand cooling against the thick greenish glass of the window; trying to ignore the sick ache in his stomach. At least they now knew where the men were headed. He could already hear Anthea on the phone, ordering some unknown agency to make haste towards Invergordon. 

But Sherlock was still out there, drugged and in the hands of faceless thugs. Men who were associates of Harman, that shadowy figure who still caused Sherlock to occasionally wake up gasping and wide-eyed, clutching at the sheets. He had never elaborated on his nightmares, but John knew without asking where they sometimes took him. 

He pressed his palm hard against the aged, warped glass; willing himself to stay calm. (Panicking does not help. You’re going to keep it together. You’ve got help. He will be all right.)

(Please god, _please_ let him be all right.)


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was frankly getting a bit bored of being kidnapped. It didn’t matter how incompetent or well organised his captors were, being kidnapped always seemed to involve an awful lot of tedious hanging around while being bound and/or gagged and being shunted unceremoniously from place to place. There was almost always the overhanging threat of profound pain and eventual death; but in between times there were mainly long intervals of discomfort, inertia, very little dignity and in this particular case, a distinct lack of plumbing. 

He had divined that the large vehicle had been moving for approximately ninety minutes, once the drugs had begun to ebb away a little. He hoped he had managed to remain reasonably still as he slowly emerged from the dark stupor, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. He was lying at a precarious angle in the footwell, his upper body slumped across the back seat. He realised with a lurch of thankfulness that the knife was no longer touching his ear, nor was there a hand in his hair. Apart from the developing bruises from his encounter with the floor earlier, he seemed reasonably uninjured thus far. He didn’t dare open his eyes just yet. He could perceive the youngest [idiot] member of the team sitting very close by, next to the rear left window. 

[Whiff of cologne. CK1. [Absurdly dated] the bottle was nearly empty. Denim jeans, newly washed. Industrial detergent. Tuna and sweetcorn sandwich [vile]. Traces of river mud. 

Synthetic fibres. Cigarette smoke [Benson and Hedges, would cheerfully commit GBH for one at the moment]. Gun oil. John.]

[John. John. He’ll know I’m gone by now. How long did it take him to come back inside? He’ll be the one to find Patrick. Oh god, Patrick. _Mycroft._ ]

[Not now. Save for later]

The land rover was moving surprisingly slowly for a getaway vehicle. The silence between the three men seemed a little oppressive; a faint clicking noise. [ashtray. Nervous habit. Opened and shut four times. Wait for it….]

“Don’t do that.” [The Alsatian. Schneider] He spoke in a quiet, monosyllabic tone from the direction of the drivers seat. 

“I’ll do whatever I please, thank you.” came the snappish reply. [Marseilles. Bleach Blonde. Bruno? Yes, that was it.]

“Listen to the boss man!” Narek laughed nasally, from the seat next to Sherlock. He could hear and feel the youth stretching out his legs, rubbing a hand across a couple of days worth of stubble on his narrow chin. “He don’t look like it, but Trenet is the brains of our operation, Schneider. Remember?”

Sherlock strained his ears, waiting for a reply. None came. The ashtray snapped shut once more, then fell silent. [making a point. He’s nervous. Whatever tenuous seniority he has, he’s not going to hang on to it much longer. There’s going to be a coup. Interesting. Useful? Maybe.]

He could feel the distinct sensation of heavy guage tires rolling over snow, could hear the whine-squeak of window wipers scraping over ice to the front and rear of the vehicle. 

The rasp-click of a cigarette lighter, followed by a deep inhalation of breath. Beautiful waft of smoke, billowing through the confined space. An ostentatious cough, from Bruno.

[Bruno Trenet…. Trenet…. Ah. The incident in Montpellier. Monsieur Jacob Trenet, currently serving twenty five years in maximum security following several convictions for heroin smuggling and supply. I suppose it’s possible one or two individuals might be a little piqued with me over that. Why now, though? Think. Think. Ugh, brain still revoltingly sluggish. Perhaps it’s age – I used to be able to shrug off narcotic hangover in no time. Most unfair. Perhaps there is something to be said for sobriety after all.]

[John would be proud of me for having that thought.]

****

Sherlock forced himself to retrieve the details of his dealings with Jacob Trenet from a filing cabinet deep in one of the sub-basements. It had been fairly insignificant, really. Trenet had had some dealings with Moriarty, certainly… during his time away from London, Sherlock had discovered that a large proportion of Moriarty’s income was derived from the sale of heroin, both in the UK and overseas. Trenet had been a middleman, importing the product and organising the transfers to various points of sale. Moriarty had set Trenet up in business more than a decade ago; his initial investment had paid off handsomely and repeatedly. 

The whole business had been so dull, Sherlock had been vaguely tempted just to move on without bothering with Jacob Trenet. The world was hardly going to be greatly improved by the removal of just one more heroin supplier; another three inevitably just popped up in their place to fill the gap in the market. Moriarty was dead, it wasn’t as if the money was benefiting him any more. 

Sherlock had been on the verge of leaving Montpellier for Paris when an informant had let him know about a new kind of product being delivered to Trenet, from eastern Europe. 

The woman had been palpably nervous, much more so than when she had previously passed on information. She was the manager of a café that Trenet and his associates frequented near the harbour. A tall, thin woman, with small watery eyes and raw cracked hands from eczema and over-use of antibacterial cleanser. She had spent over fifteen years keeping her eyes open and her mouth shut. But Sherlock had hardly needed to threaten her at all in order to extract the relevant information, simply due to the fact that her teenage son had begun hanging around with some of Trenet’s underlings. The woman was desperate to keep the boy out of Trenet’s clutches, but couldn’t risk offending her most powerful customer. She had initially told Sherlock of the unregistered containers arriving on small cargo ships late at night, and which men usually went to meet the crew. That had been useful, if rather dull information. 

It had been the look in her tired, damp eyes that persuaded Sherlock to investigate the other, newer cargo before he left Montpellier. Her son had been sitting at a corner table with a couple of older men, playing cards and trying to look like he was enjoying the cheap cognac his friends were tossing back. Sherlock had been planning on anonymously tipping off the local police about the shipments before catching a night train to Paris. He had been looking forward to finding a slightly more comfortable place to stay, to shaking off his current disguise as a fisheries sales rep. It was with a poor grace he had hidden in the cab of one of the harbour cranes, waiting to see what unfolded below. 

It had been February, and the poorly lit harbour was windswept and icy cold; lashed with occasional heavy rainfall. The cab had leaked slightly but persistently, eventually drenching one of Sherlock’s cramped legs. He had waited an hour past the usual delivery time, with no sign of an incoming ship. He had smoked six cigarettes he had found in a battered box under the seat, and felt distinctly queasy; remembering too late that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous morning. 

He had allowed his mind to drift back to London, thinking a little wistfully of a little café above a bookmakers on Chiltern street he had occasionally frequented. It stayed open until 2am, serving terrible coffee and overcooked fried food. He and John had ended up there more than once after a case, bone tired and elated. 

John’s narrow grinning mouth, a smear of ketchup at the corner. John’s weary eyes, holding his gaze as they laughed. Sherlock’s restless hands on the greasy formica table top, toying with a sandwich in a plastic basket that he didn’t want but John had insisted he order. [“For gods sake, Sherlock. We’re not leaving ‘til you eat at least half of it. Don’t fucking give me that look; you need to eat. You can’t just keep going til you keel over… it was embarrassing enough when it happened at the MOD last month, remember?”]

Sherlock had realised, with a deep sharp pang that had nothing to do with hunger, that he would give quite a lot to hear John Watson nag him into eating a substandard club sandwich again. When these thoughts arrived (with irritating and increasing frequency the longer he was away from London) he treated them gingerly, as if prodding an aching tooth or barely-healed wound. He had expected it to get easier as more time passed, as he threw himself into his mission. 

[John’s voice on the telephone, when he was exasperated but one could still hear the smile in his words. The knowledge that he would do whatever was asked of him, because John Watson had trusted Sherlock Holmes back then. _Don’t._ ] 

He had suddenly come back to himself when there was a sudden scurry of movement below. A muffled creak and clang of a metal bolt on a scratched shipping container that still sat on the decks of a small cargo ship anchored some fifty yards away. The vessel was dark, not a single light at any of the windows or portholes. Sherlock leaned forwards, pressing his cheek to the grimy window to keep the container in his line of vision. Normally the deliveries were taken from containers that had been lifted onto the quay, concealed within sacks of grain or fertiliser. Not the case this evening. 

Three men, well wrapped up against the rain and cold, stood facing the door of the container. It still remained shut, and even in the gloom of the harbour Sherlock could ascertain that they were wary. The posture of two of the figures indicated that they held firearms at their sides. The third held a torch in one hand, and a long baton or crop in the other. 

The dull, sick feeling in Sherlock’s stomach had intensified as he took in the scene. Once upon a time, in his old life, this sort of set-up would have the blood roaring in his veins; his mind would be spinning, planning out every possible course of action and the resulting scenarios. It would take John a little longer, of course, maybe until the first scantily dressed and huddled figure emerged warily from the depths of the metal box. John’s fury would have been glorious, _incandescent_ , John would have been itching to fight; to defend; to throw himself into a melee with never a thought for his own personal safety. And Sherlock would be shoulder to shoulder with him as he advanced, straight-backed and sure; his face not betraying the [not good] bone-deep rightness and glee that came from the two of them, fighting together. 

But now it was just Sherlock, who didn’t have a blogger or even an inferior DI at his side. He watched gloomily as the straggling line of shivering people emerged from the dark, some of them clutching a bag or a few meagre possessions; but most of them merely hugging their own frames against the icy damp wind. Well over half were young women, grubby and dishevelled. They huddled together, heads turning this way and that as they took in their surroundings; but their gaze always returned to the three men on deck, their outstretched arms and the clear threat they represented. A couple of figures made a quick, abortive attempt at leaping overboard into the freezing choppy water; a whip-thin black teenage boy and a taller Asian girl. They were quickly subdued; knocked to the floor of the ship by the man holding the baton. The boy managed to shakily get to his feet after a moment or two. The girl took a little longer, and was yanked to her feet by her hair. 

Sherlock exhaled slowly, and prepared to descend from the cab of the crane. [He would have been holding John back by now, insisting that they wait until the opportune moment.]

[Time to _go and be Sherlock Holmes_ ]

It had been a reasonably straightforward matter of waiting until Trenet’s men had led, pushed and shoved their delivery of humans onto the quay. Sherlock had had ample time to text a contact at Interpol (all too evident that the local gendarmerie and coastguard would turn a blind eye) and position himself in the shadow of a forklift truck. It was the work of less than a minute to incapacitate the baton-holder with a length of chain and to knock one of the other men into the water after a well-timed kidney jab and a strategic punch in the throat. Several of the more enterprising captives made a run for it at this point, as Sherlock faced down the last man. The plan had been to relieve the man now frantically thrashing in the water of his gun, but a slight miscalculation [sloppy!] had led to Sherlock’s hands now being unfortunately empty. Sherlock had always been much happier in straightforward hand-to-hand combat; guns always just felt lumpen, inelegant, _wrong_ in his hands [but not in John’s hand]. 

He glanced at the remaining handful of youths nearby, some cowering; others frozen. Some worryingly blank, eyes dull and almost uninterested in what was happening. No help there. 

“Qui diable êtes-vous?!” his opponent hissed, advancing with his pistol pointed directly at Sherlock’s head. 

And for a brief moment, Sherlock had wondered whether to just… let things go another way. He could stop looking for a way out. He could just… stop. He was just so _tired_ , his bones ached from it. Once upon a time, a murderous human trafficker would have just been another satisfying little challenge. It was another hurdle to hop over, his coat-tails swirling behind him. Another impossible task to accomplish with a flourish, watched by a friend who would tell him off for his theatrics and yet would in the same breath murmur _fantastic_.

Sherlock’s hands were dropping, his eyes halfway to closing in resignation when the tall girl who had been knocked to the deck flung herself out of a corridor formed by two towering containers. She was holding a large metal rubbish bin over her head, her eyes wide and teeth bared. She aimed it at the man’s head, catching him with a glancing blow mostly by sheer unexpected luck. The clang knocked Sherlock smartly out of his fugue, and a welcome surge of adrenaline propelled him forwards. The gun had fired before he reached the man, the bullet intended for the panting girl and missing her by less than a foot. She was raising her fists as Sherlock approached, her dark eyes flickering between him and her captor; wary of them both. 

The man hesitated for a split second, clearly unable to decide which one of them to dispatch first. It was long enough; a flying kick to his femur and a simultaneous slice towards his dominant hand had the gun clattering across the ground and disappearing into the water. Once the man was groaning on the ground, the girl delivered several sharp kicks to his groin that had even Sherlock wincing slightly after the first few. Her feet were only covered by stained, tattered plimsolls but the sustained, vehement force she used was impressive. She finished her onslaught by kicking him once more in the side of the head. She glanced up at Sherlock once the man had passed out, and they exchanged a long look. She was probably only about seventeen, lank-haired and showing the signs of rapid weight loss. She wore a man’s grubby jacket over the remains of what he distantly recognised as a school uniform. 

Sherlock took a moment or two to dredge up some of his neglected Japanese, and even longer to clear his throat; rusty from disuse. She didn’t respond at first, and frowned until he repeated himself haltingly.

_Where did you come from?_

Osaka. But that was months ago.

Neither of them bothered asking for names; they were irrelevant. Sherlock was all too aware of her stance; the man on the ground had been the immediate threat but this girl was nowhere near trusting him. He didn’t blame her in the slightest. 

He gave her a long look, taking in more detail as the figures around them began to disperse into the shadows. He could see the shadows of bruises on one side of her face, and more along one thin leg. A mental nudge from John made him add: _Thank you._

She gave him a speculative look as wrapped the lapels of her dingy jacket firmly around her torso. He became aware of a silhouette nearby, lurking the shelter of an empty container. It was the boy she had attempted to flee with earlier, watching their conversation with evident anxiety.

“Hinata…” he called quietly, his hands clasping nervously under his chin. “Hear?”

__

She glanced at him, frowning as the sound of sirens approaching the harbour became increasingly audible. Time was running out and Sherlock could almost hear the gears in her mind working, evaluating her options. 

__

Something in the way she looked at the boy, the almost imperceptible way in which she was edging in front of him, spoke volumes. The way she had thrown herself at the man who now lay on the ground without thought of self-preservation reminded Sherlock so forcefully of John he had to bite back an invitation to come with him. Just for a while. He’d help her get on her feet. Help her get home, if that’s what she wanted. 

__

_I'm not going back. Do you have any money?_

__

Sherlock nodded at once, cursing himself silently as he reached into his pockets. Somewhere in the depths of his mind he could hear Mycroft’s weary voice: _Really, little brother?_

__

He unearthed a handful of crumpled notes, perhaps €300 in total. He didn’t count, merely holding out the wad of cash at arm’s length until she grabbed it with a swift nod of thanks and stuffed it into her pocket. He shrugged off his heavy waterproof jacket and held it out towards the shivering boy without looking at him; ignoring the heavy rain that immediately soaked his cheap shirt and cardigan. 

__

She cast one last disdainful glance at the man on the ground who was now stirring feebly. 

__

He nodded again, watching her turn towards her friend. She tugged the hood of Sherlock’s over-large jacket over his head and pushed the boy in the small of his back, urging him to walk more quickly. Without a backwards glance they headed towards the sagging chain-link fence that separated the harbour from the road that led to Montpellier. 

__

He’d never found out what happened to them. He’d made himself file them away, along with the case. First of all though, he’d ensured that there was ample evidence to send down not just Jacob Trenet but several of his cohorts for smuggling heroin and human trafficking offences. The son of the woman in the café spent six months in prison on a minor charge, and on his release emigrated to Australia to work on a sheep farm. 

__

Sherlock was fairly sure that Bruno Trenet had not been in Montpellier at the time. He could find no trace of the man among his memories; his previous conclusions about the man led him to believe that he must have been incarcerated for other reasons when his brother was arrested. It was more than likely Jacob Trenet had delegated the chore of tracking down Sherlock to Bruno once he was released. 

__

He had no doubt that the family had resumed their business, albeit in a reduced capacity. The man with the terrible blonde hair was clearly not well acquainted with his companions; theirs was clearly a union of convenience and necessity. The shipping container that held the human cargo had contained a wealth of evidence that indicated it had come from Turkey. However, the handful of victims that Sherlock had managed to talk to before they either went with the authorities or scattered to the winds like Hinata and her friend made it clear that it had merely been a stop along the way. They were a disparate group from several different countries. Some had become captives after being promised new lives and jobs. Some had been coerced by partners or relatives, or in some cases simply kidnapped while travelling. Many of them had no idea where they had been for a lot of the time. Most had been disorientated and traumatised, mistrustful of anyone who asked questions. 

__

Most of the details that Sherlock had managed to piece together had indicated the involvement of another organisation further east, initially leading back to Georgia but prior to that, Armenia. He hadn’t followed the lead any further. He didn’t believe that there was a link to Moriarty there; and after all the delivery had been compromised. There wasn’t going to be another delivery, at least to Trenet. 

__

His foray into Armenia had taken place well over a year later, while he was attempting to garner information on Moriarty’s Turkish associates. He had all but forgotten about the Montpellier incident by then, had filed it away and moved on. He had other things to think about. 

__

Mycroft’s voice again. _Charming trip down memory lane, little brother. Address the salient facts, if you please_.

__

[Will you shut _up,_ Mycroft.]

__

Armenia. Here was a relation of Jacob Trenet, in the company of a practically pubescent Armenian mobster and an older, obviously more experienced henchman. 

__

Sherlock was hesitating on the threshold of the room that contained those other memories, the ones that stubbornly remained despite his best efforts to flush them out of his mind palace. He had tried, so many times. And yet they slipped back under the doors and stole through the windows, persistent and insidious. The things that dwelt within this room seethed and roiled behind the door, occasionally leaking out and polluting his dreams. 

__

Yes, there were several million Armenians in the world. But the presence of Trenet made it clear that a grudge was involved. Sherlock had certainly irked a great many people in his life; but not many of them were Armenian. He was unwilling to entertain the idea that this was a mere coincidence, however tempting it might be. 

__

But while Trenet was alive and well in maximum security, Harman was extremely dead. When Sherlock had learnt the details of the arms dealer’s demise, he was almost persuaded of the idea that Mycroft was _upset_ about his treatment in Yerevan. Of course, he had never spoken to his brother about the incident there, but he supposed that some details probably emerged during Harman’s interrogation. Sherlock had already been absorbed in tracking down a group of counterfeiters in Moscow by the time Harman met his end. He had not responded to the email Mycroft had sent him, which contained a news report of a terrible house fire in Yerevan. The body found inside apparently had to be identified by dental records. The attached photograph showed Harman before the fire took hold; or at least the parts of Harman that were left. Sherlock had forced himself to take a long look before deleting the file; ignoring the brief, sick swoop in his stomach when he looked at the man’s face. The sensation had nothing to do with the rather gory nature of the photograph, which he only vaguely registered. 

__

But who was left in Yerevan? Harman had no children, Sherlock was sure of it. But Narek, the ghastly young man on the seat next to him, was clearly convinced of his own importance. He certainly did not present himself as a mere grunt for hire. Schneider was no relation but something in his manner suggested that he was supervising the youth. 

__

He risked a glance at Narek, flicking his left eye open for a mere split second. Narek was studying something on a flashy looking mobile phone, a nasty little grin on his face. From Sherlock’s low angle in the footwell he could make out more of the tattoo on his neck; a writhing wolf with bared teeth, a severed human hand dangling from its’ jaws. [poorly executed, clear signs of healed infection in three places.] His profile was unremarkable, but a brief mental comparison of bone structure, hairline and his earlobes convinced Sherlock [admittedly, a 13% margin of error but he had only been looking for a moment] of some kind of blood link between Narek and the dead man.

__

He ignored the faint lurch in his gut [mere aftereffect of the drug, without question] and thought hard. Narek had been sent. He almost seemed to be trying to prove himself in some way, showing off and breaking rank. Itching to use his knife. He was no criminal mastermind; he and Schneider had been sent by a third party. 

__

This was a game of brothers, then. One could safely conclude that Bruno was Jacob Trenet’s younger sibling. Narek and Schneider were representatives, sent almost certainly by Harman’s brother. Sherlock had been dimly aware of a wider family, but had discarded the information when it became clear that they had no immediate connection to Harman’s arms dealings. 

__

The house in Yerevan had been crammed full of knick-knacks and trinkets, terrible pictures and souvenirs. Sherlock swallowed hard and forced himself to dig a little deeper, to examine the memory more closely. [Dark red flock wallpaper. Gilt plastic framed prints. Dusty plastic plants. Cat hair. Ceramic tiles around the unlit fireplace. Scent of stale tobacco. Burnt toast. Vodka tinged sweat.] 

__

[He’s not in here. He’s dead. DEAD. Focus. Focus.]

__

Sherlock ignored the phantom footsteps coming down the hallway outside the room. He could control what happened in here, with concentration. He could isolate parts of a memory, freezing a moment in time and examining the finer details. The angle was a little difficult, from only a few inches above the dark grey shag-pile carpet; but it would suit his purposes. [Vodka. Sweat.]

__

[Focus.]

__

He concentrated on the mantelpiece, long and low over a gas fireplace. A heavy slab of greenish marble, expensive and tacky. Gilt carriage clock. Unloaded glock. Unopened mail. Four photographs in frames; two clearly of Harman’s parents judging by familial resemblance and age of the prints. In one of them the stocky, square-jawed woman sat cradling a nondescript bundle of blankets in the crook of her arm. Only one child at that point, then. Circa 1961. 

__

[No. Wait.]

__

Sherlock forced himself to examine the photograph in his memory, the blurred edges sharpening briefly and ebbing away as he tried to recall every detail. He had spent most of his time on the floor in here, which affected the way in which he could examine his memory of the room. The musty smell of the carpet resurfaced, unwelcome. The sensation of the rough synthetic fibres against his cheek. [Focus. Irrelevant.]

__

The photograph did not sit entirely perfectly in the gold plastic frame, the left side pressed a little closer to the glass than the right. The tall thin man who stood next to the woman was slightly off-centre; part of his arm cut off by the frame. The photograph was folded at one side, obscuring perhaps a quarter of the original print. With an effort, Sherlock made himself cut off every other resurfacing detail and concentrated with every fibre of his being on the grainy photograph. 

__

Another child, then. Older. Not completely estranged; he would have cut off that side of the photograph rather than merely folding it behind. An older brother; unwelcome but ties not completely severed. No other suggestions of fraternal ties anywhere else in the dimly lit room; no old greetings cards stuck behind the clock, no other photographs, no clues of gifts from a family member or purloined books on the shelf. Where was this brother? Clearly not in Armenia for a considerable while by the time Sherlock arrived, masquerading as the son of Harman’s rival. 

__

A definite pattern. Another returning brother, taking over operations. Seeking vengeance for Sherlock’s interference. Sending his son on a mission, instructing him to bring Sherlock back. 

__

[Which begs the question: what kind of punishment will they have in mind?]

__


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft came to stand beside John at the kitchen window, straightening his tie and fastening the buttons of his jacket with one deft hand. John started slightly; he wasn’t entirely sure how long he had been standing staring out into the grounds, watching the snow blanketing the branches of a nearby pine tree. He supposed it was probably only a matter of a minute or so; a quick glance over his shoulder showed Mary still sitting motionless in her chair, Anthea leisurely adding a few more loops of duct tape around her torso for good measure. Violet was nowhere to be seen.

With an effort, John swallowed and forced himself to look up at Mycroft’s profile; taking in his almost unruffled appearance and the drying blood on his neck and collar. His expression was utterly inscrutable. 

“Is he-?”

“I am assured that they are doing their utmost. It is apparently too risky to move him just yet.” Mycroft said, after a pause. He frowned slightly before quietly adding: “They asked me to leave until they stabilised his condition.”

John stared at the blood, the narrow streaks that curved up towards Mycroft’s ear. The trails left by three fingertips on his skin, echoed on the starched white of his shirt collar. He vaguely wondered if Mycroft even knew the marks were there.

“They can’t have all they need with them. He’s going to need surgery-“

“I am _aware._ ” Mycroft said tightly, cutting him off. He didn’t meet John’s eyes. “Major Braithwaite is a senior member of Her Majesty’s personal medical staff, and his team are well equipped to deal with a variety of medical emergencies. Patrick will be air-lifted to Aberdeen as soon as possible.”

The snow continued to fall outside, silently and heavier every minute. It coated the motionless blades of the helicopters that stood on the drive, covering them with a thickening layer of white. 

John inhaled deeply, and took another look behind him, catching Anthea’s eye as she stepped back from Mary. He deliberately avoided looking at the woman tightly bound to the chair. 

“Any news?”

Anthea glanced down at her phone reflexively, her mouth hardening a fraction. “It’s taking longer than I would like. The weather conditions are making it difficult to get accurate satellite imagery. Roadblocks are being assembled as we speak, on all the major roads towards Invergordon. Some of my colleagues will be arriving at the airfield there within ten minutes.” she gave him a flicker of a smile that he supposed was meant to reassure him. “Doctor Watson, there is no way that the younger Mr. Holmes will be taken out of the country.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t harm him in the meantime. These people-“ he swallowed convulsively, fighting another wave of horror; forcing himself to say the name. “Harman’s people-“

“Will be dealt with.” Anthea said briskly. “Strategically, it wouldn’t make sense to take him and injure him en route to the plane. What would be the point?”

“Quite.” Mycroft said, his face hardening. “John, believe me when I say that whatever dregs of Harman’s empire remain, they will dealt with. Permanently.”

John’s gaze trailed back inexorably towards Mary, his anger cresting again. She was determinedly staring at the floor, motionless and clearly avoiding drawing any attention to herself. On some level, he was disturbed by his own fury towards her. His earlier desire to hurt her was still there, simmering beneath his skin. He wanted vengeance, so much that it burnt.

“I…” he bit out, and stopped. (I can’t look at her any more. I can’t. I’m scared of what I’ll say. What I could do. “I need to-“

He couldn’t find the words. 

Blindly, John stumbled from the room; taking the longer route around the kitchen table so that he didn’t have to walk past her. He shoved the heavy door open, letting it rebound loudly against the wall of the corridor as he half-ran away from the kitchen. Anger and panic were seething through him, threatening to overwhelm him completely. It frightened him badly. He had never experienced dread like this on a battlefield or fighting for his life in one of the darker corners of London. Perhaps not since that awful afternoon he had stood looking up at the grey façade of Barts, watching Sherlock’s silhouette against the darkening sky, hearing the tight grief in his voice. The sense of immense and imminent loss. 

(This isn’t accomplishing anything. Fucking crumbling into a sorry heap of panic doesn’t help him. Pull yourself together. _Now._ )

He forced himself to keep moving down the corridor, his hand trailing along the chilly stone wall. In the distance he could hear a flurry of movement, feet pounding up the stairs in the great hall. Pushing open the green baize door, he spied one of the medical team from earlier on the stairs. In his hands was a heavy case that John numbly recognised as a portable defibrillator. 

“Damn it man, hurry!” he heard another voice bark from above; clearly that of Major Braithwaite. He sounded impatient and out of breath. “We need it _now!_ ”

(Patrick. Oh, god. I almost left him to chase after them. He’d be dead if I had. But I might have gotten to Sherlock by now. And Patrick might be dying anyway… it might not have made a difference. God help me, perhaps I should have let him bleed out on the floor; if it would have helped me get to Sherlock… if it would stop anything happening to him)

The wave of shame that accompanied these thoughts made him feel almost ill, and he sank into one of the hard carved wooden chairs next to the huge unlit fireplace. Almost without conscious thought he delved into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and opening the battered leather with numb fingers. Behind his credit and debit cards, his driving license and a couple of old train tickets he found it; the charred and blackened piece of paper he had found in the fireplace of 221B, months ago. 

_-you, John. With all my-_

Sherlock’s familiar scrawl in black ink, the words on either side burnt away into nothing. The paper singed but not entirely destroyed after he had flung it into the dying fire. John could picture it so easily, the frustration and impatience that Sherlock felt when trying to express how he felt. The inevitable fit of pique when he gave up, culminating in crushing the page of A4 into a ball and hurling it into the fire. Simply putting it into the wastepaper basket wouldn’t be dramatic enough, not when he could incinerate his supposed failure. 

(I spent months telling him how much I love him. _Months._ And he was still so quick to believe that it wasn’t true, or that I didn’t love him enough. That I would just up and leave him like that. When they took him, he believed that he couldn’t give me enough; that I would let him go so easily. What is he thinking right now? He’ll know it was a stupid ruse, Mary showing up like that. Oh god, this is all my fault! Why the fuck did I agree to give her those few minutes? I knew he was upset and scared and I still chose to walk away from him. I left him on his own when he was hurting and now he’s gone and-)

He jumped violently when a hesitant hand touched his shoulder, startled out of the vicious spiral of his thoughts. The flimsy scrap of paper fluttered to the stone floor, and came to rest between his feet. 

“Murdy!” John stooped from where he sat and picked up the charred fragment hastily. He tucked it swiftly out of sight into his wallet and looked up at her blearily. “Seriously. You need to go home. Now.”

Murdy’s face hardened, her shoulders squaring as if she were preparing for a fight. She was no longer wearing her coat and she didn’t look as if she had been out of doors any time recently. She was holding an extremely large and heavy looking volume under one arm. It was probably safe to conclude that she had merely gone out of the kitchen door and back into the house through the great hall. 

“No. I’m not going to.” she said bluntly, her expression fierce. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Look, I know you want to help-“ John said distractedly, pressing his palms against his eyes and willing himself not to lose his temper. 

“Yes, so shut up and _listen_.” Murdy ordered him, dropping to her knees on the floor and pushing the huge book towards him. “Those people in the kitchen – they’re trying to figure out where they’ve gone using satellites and all sorts of fancy stuff. But they don’t _know_ this place, Doctor Watson.”

She opened the cover of what turned out to be a large topographical study of the Highlands, flicking through a few dozen pages before coming to a large scale map of Aberdeenshire. She pulled out an enclosure, unfolding the pages like an accordion until he could see every ripple of the mountainous landscape, every forest and stream, every village and town spread out across the landscape. Intricate contour lines showed the crags and peaks of every hill, the dips of every valley and the paths of winding rivers. 

“They were in a land rover, right?” she asked insistently. 

“And of course you were listening at the door.” John said, his stomach twisting slightly at the thought that she might have watched him threatening a defenceless woman tied to a chair. “Listen, Murdy – whatever you saw-“

“I saw and heard enough, and it doesn’t _matter_ , Doctor Watson. You can have a chat with me about ethics later if you want, but right now you’ve got to look at this and listen to me.” she informed him brusquely, pushing a hank of unruly curls out of her face. “Look. There’s all manner of roads they can take. You can see: this one here towards Aberdeen, this other one towards Garlogie, this one towards Dyce. They’re obvious; and I’m guessing that lady will have sorted out roadblocks by now. But look at the landscape. If they’re in a decent vehicle, they’ll try and go cross country. Anyone would be able to spot a roadblock a mile off; this is new years day and the roads are quiet. Furthermore, if they’re heading for Invergordon, it would be a much shorter journey if they went cross-country. There are trails through the Cairngorms that could take a landrover easily enough. See, here?”

Her skinny finger traced a dotted line that weaved through farmland and valleys, into the mass of darkly ringed mountains that stood between Hilderbogie and Invergordon, beyond Inverness and the Moray Firth. “I mean, it’s what I’d do. There’s only so many roads they could take. They’ll _know_ there’ll be people looking for them, and soon. They won’t know that we know that Invergordon is their destination; they think that woman got away on the river, that she couldn’t have told us that bit. But unless they’re totally thick, they’ll have looked at the area in advance and come up with more than one way of getting to Invergordon. You need local knowledge here, Doctor Watson. That man and the lady with the phone, they’re not going to know this place. Not like me. I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve barely left this place; I _know_ these hills.”

John attempted to reorder his thoughts, taking a deep breath as he tried his best to focus on her words and the endlessly detailed maps on the floor. Murdy was wound tight, positively vibrating with energy and impatience as she explained the various trails through the mountains. Her newly shorn dark hair was messy, bearing the unmistakeable signs of restless fingers dragged through it repeatedly.

“Murdy, my little beastie, there had better be a reason why you’re still here and an even better one for why you’ve got that book on the floor.” Violet said crisply, appearing at the foot of the staircase. She had evidently gone to change out of her stained clothes, and to wash the traces of Patrick’s blood from her hands. She now wore some sharply cut, slightly mannish tweeds and her hair was newly twisted into a tight knot at the back of her neck. She looked like she meant business as she came to join them by the fireplace. 

Murdy cast John an imploring look as she hastily lifted the book off the stone floor. 

“I actually think you’ll want to listen to this, Vi.” John said slowly, grateful for the way that Violet came to lean against his chair, her hand dropping onto his shoulder. “Murdy’s got one or two ideas that might not have occurred to Anthea and Mycroft.”

“Hm. Through the mountains, eh?” Violet observed, bending down to look at the maps. “Good point, although it’ll be getting trickier as the time passes. The snow isn’t letting up at all; I haven’t seen it so heavy in years. I… I think it might be getting past the point where they can take Patrick to Aberdeen.”

Her voice was determinedly calm, but she wasn’t entirely able to stop a minute tremble in her lower lip. She inhaled sharply and looked down at the map again, rummaging in her trouser pocket for her silver cigarette case. 

Murdy turned and peered out of one of the small narrow windows on either side of the front door; wordlessly taking in the heavy drifts that were piling up on the sills. John’s mouth went dry; it simply hadn’t occurred to him that the snow would affect flying conditions for the helicopters. He knew, of course, the dangers of flying in reduced visibility. 

But he had been so distracted that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He remembered Mycroft’s closed expression as he stared out of the kitchen window at John’s side. The man had known that the window of time was closing with every second that passed. 

“They’ll have to take him in a car then, won’t they?” Murdy asked cautiously. “I mean… it’ll take longer. But they’ll be able to get Patrick there, right?”

Violet didn’t say anything, busy lighting a cigarette clamped between her lips.

John stared at her pale, worried face and remembered how Patrick had hauled her out of the freezing river, only a day before. How Patrick had taken off his scarf and wrapped it round her neck as she stood quaking in the cold. He remembered the dark, relentless stream of blood that flowed from the deep wound in Patrick’s side.

He nodded shakily. “Of course. Don’t worry. Of course they will.”

Murdy gave him a long look, but didn’t pursue the topic.

***

Sherlock could tell that the snow was getting heavier as the minutes slipped by; it was all too evident from the muffled tread of the vehicles’ tyres and the erratic pace of their progress. 

[Honestly, it’s completely ludicrous to stage a kidnapping and not even check the weather forecast. This outfit becomes more and more embarrassingly slipshod by the hour.]

The occasional brief flicker of his left eyelid reassured Sherlock that Narek was still engrossed in his phone on the other side of the back seat. The unpleasant youth was breathing through his open mouth in a manner that suggested both adenoidal issues and a distinct lack of dental hygiene. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Sherlock to maintain his neutral, unconscious expression. His left cheek had developed an agonising itch from being pressed against the polyester upholstery [vile] and he was increasingly uncomfortable due to being sprawled and crumpled in the footwell like a discarded toy. 

[Probably time to start stirring. They might become suspicious if I stay under for too long. This sadistic little moron may not be particularly observant; but Schneider remains something of an unknown quantity. Too doped up to observe closely earlier. Can’t see him from here and he hasn’t said nearly enough for me to form any kind of decent hypothesis. What’s in this for him? All too clear with Trenet. Distinct father issues; he desires to outshine his incarcerated bother. Obvious that he never will. Has a certain level of menace; but nowhere near enough to command. _Petty. _]__

__“Trenet, give me a cigarette. I’ve none left.” Narek drawled suddenly, without looking up from his phone._ _

__“Nor do I.” Bruno Trenet replied tightly, without looking round in the passenger seat._ _

__“Ha! You had five left in the packet earlier. I _saw_.” Narek sniped, glaring into the rear view mirror until Trenet presumably met his gaze. “Come on, share. Just one.”_ _

__Trenet did not reply. Sherlock could hear the rasp of waterproof coat fabric as he folded his arms tightly._ _

__Sherlock waited a moment longer, in case the scene evolved into anything more piquant; but Narek merely snorted in disgust and returned to his phone._ _

__He made a couple of deliberately blurred sounds, hazy murmurs that should suggest an emergence from stupor; followed by a carefully uncoordinated flail of his left wrist and a jerk of his head. He blinked repeatedly as he slowly turned his face to Narek; his right ear and eye still pressed into the upholstery._ _

__Narek looked down with a kind of sneering interest, and gave him a small grin. “Hello sleeping beauty.”_ _

__Sherlock forced himself to remain still, but his right fist clenched; hidden in the bundle of John’s sweater in his lap. He blinked several times more for good measure, and sniffed._ _

__“Mm.”_ _

__“Give him some more, Narek.” Trenet instructed._ _

__“Ah, he does not look like he puts up a fight.” Narek said dismissively. “He might be more fun than you to talk with,” he added._ _

__“Wan’…. wan’ get up.” Sherlock murmured. “Pl’s?”_ _

__As he had hoped, Trenet snapped: “Keep him down!”_ _

__“Trenet, we are in the middle of the fucking Scotland country. In the snow. Nobody will see.” Narek sighed, with exaggerated patience. He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s upper arm and hauled, dragging him up onto the back seat._ _

__Sherlock made a point of shrinking away from him towards the far side of the vehicle, weakly batting away his hands. Narek grinned at him, showing his teeth._ _

__[Good. He’s already getting overconfident. He thinks I’m afraid of him; he’s getting even more cocky. He wants to defy Trenet at every turn. Schneider doesn’t seem inclined to intervene. His loyalties are without question.]_ _

__[God getting kidnapped is so tedious. I am really not in the mood for this.]_ _

__[Wish I was on the sofa in 221b; wrapped in my second best dressing gown. John rattling the pages of yesterdays newspaper in his armchair. Scent of breakfast tea growing cold on the table. Toast crumbs scattered on the carpet. The minute rasp of John’s fingertips rubbing against his unshaven jaw. John…]_ _

__[Focus!]_ _

__“There is no need to look so scare.” Narek assured him, after staring at Sherlock for a few seconds. The horrid little twinkle in his eye made Sherlock’s skin itch, his fingers twisting in the bundle of crumpled wool in his lap. “I promise I’ll be nice to you.”_ _

__Sherlock made a show of blinking slowly several times, wiping the back of his hand against the corner of his mouth. “Um. Water. Can I… some water?” he asked, slurring slightly._ _

__“Don’t have any.” Narek informed him dismissively._ _

__“Oh.” Sherlock inhaled deeply, lowering his shaking hand to his lap. “I don’t suppose you feel like telling me where we’re going? And who sent you?”_ _

__“But you are famous detective, Sherlock Holmes!” Narek replied, with a great show of surprise. “You can not tell?”_ _

__“Give me a minute.” Sherlock muttered, with a show of embarrassment. “That… whatever you gave me… it was a lot.”_ _

__“Ah, poor chap!” Narek said commiseratingly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. Sherlock shied away a little, just enough for the young man to notice. His smile grew a little wider, exposing a pair of grey-tinged canines._ _

__Sherlock turned to gaze out of the window, with a great show of avoiding Narek’s gaze. The landscape was shockingly, horribly white; unfamiliar crags of rock and mountain projecting through heavy blankets of snow. He searched every angle, every dip and hollow for a chimney; another vehicle; a silhouetted figure in the endless fields. [Accursed countryside. There is a _reason_ why humans choose to live in cities. It’s so much more difficult to abduct consulting detectives when one had to hide from commuters and neighbours. One could perform a leisurely, messy murder in the middle of the road here and no one would see. A body could be hidden indefinitely in a ditch or gully, savaged by ravens until nothing but scratched bones are left.]_ _

__[Ignominious fate. Much prefer to be murdered in the middle of Tottenham Court Road at rush hour, if it came to it.]_ _

__“Could I have a cigarette?” he asked, after perhaps thirty seconds thought. He met Narek’s gaze nervously, running his fingers fretfully across his face and over his ear. Slight wetness on his fingertips, warm and sticky. The ghost of pain surfacing, a mere sting._ _

__Narek grinned cheerfully at him, running his hand gently along the blade of the huge curved knife in his lap. The movement was deliberately suggestive, the blade lying flat against his jean-clad thigh. He watched Sherlock rubbing the smudge of his own blood between his fingertips with a glint in his eye._ _

__“Mm, it was only a little taste, don’t worry.” He sighed, and reached out to flick Trenet’s headrest in front of him. “And the boss man has all the cigarettes.”_ _

__Sherlock cleared his throat and wiped the blood carefully on the knee of his pajamas. “Mr. Trenet? Would you be so kind?”_ _

__Trenet, glared into the windscreen ahead; but after a moment he dug in his breast pocket and withdrew a packet of Gitanes. He held it out along with a matchbook, waving them a little impatiently as Sherlock extended an almost steady hand and withdrew one of the cigarettes with a nod of thanks._ _

__[A last cigarette? Wish it could had been unfiltered at least.]_ _

__“I… I don’t suppose I can persuade you to tell me where we’re headed?” he asked, after lighting up and exhaling a lungful of smoke._ _

__Trenet shot him a glance that was slightly amused, and more than a little patronising. “Why don’t you tell us, Mr. Holmes? It will pass the time at least.”_ _

__The smoke billowed in Sherlock’s lungs, the welcome nicotine making his head swim a little but his nerves steadied considerably after a few seconds. [John says it’s all psychological. Balderdash, this is a million times better than any nicotine patch. Can feel the synapses firing better already.]_ _

__“Alright.” Sherlock said, quietly. He took another long drag from his cigarette, watching the ember flare a deep, glowing red. He began to talk, blasé and rapid-fire:_ _

__“Clearly, from the angle of the sun and its’ position in the sky we are heading north-west. We left my cousins’ house approximately one hour and forty two minutes ago. We are already deep into the Cairngorms, in a protected national park area. Judging by the movement of the vehicle, we have been off main roads for at least an hour. I neither know nor care about the names of geological features; but we must be heading through one of the deeper valleys in the direction towards Inverness. Not our final destination, however._ _

__“I can hear extra fuel containers sloshing about in the back of the vehicle; you wouldn’t need it if we were only going that far. So; further north and nowhere you would safely encounter a petrol station. Ross and Cromarty. None of you are from Scotland or indeed the British Isles; and you are all clearly here on the orders of others. Therefore the likelihood is that we are only at the beginning of our journey. I am to be taken out of the country. One could initially suppose that we are bound for France; it would certainly be understandable given that Mr. Trenet is _technically_ in charge of this stage of the operation.” he met Trenet’s eyes, which were no longer amused at all. “But your colleagues here have the unmistakable air of men who will not be answering you for long.”_ _

__Narek snorted quietly, catching Schneider’s inscrutable gaze in the rear view mirror with a smirk. Schneider tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and increased their speed by an increment._ _

__“So it seems much more likely that we are bound for Armenia.” Sherlock said, determinedly casual. “Mr. Schneider is here as a trusted employee of Mr. Harman; whose nephew sits next to me.”_ _

__Narek cocked his head and studied him thoughtfully; his fingers continuing to smooth the blade on his thigh. “Not bad, Mr. Holmes.”_ _

__“Mr. Trenet is here on behalf of his brother, whom I have had previous dealings with.” Sherlock nodded deferentially at Trenet, who did not respond. “I imagine… I imagine that it must have been difficult, coming to the arrangement with your colleague in Armenia, Mr. Trenet. Deciding which territory I would be brought to.”_ _

__“That’s enough of your deductions, Holmes.” Trenet said tightly. “Narek, give him some more. There’s another syringe in-“ he paused, and flushed slightly. Schneider glanced at him briefly, a trace of distain on his wide, impassive face._ _

__Narek’s eyes had flickered towards the pocket on the back of Trenet’s chair, betraying the location of the drug. [Oh my god, how embarrassing. Amateurs. I have been successfully kidnapped by roaring _amateurs_.]_ _

__“Tell us some more, Mr. Holmes…” Narek instructed him cheerfully. “I hear what you can do. What can you tell us about Trenet? How many girls did he fuck last year?”_ _

__“Narek, shut your mouth and give him the drug.” Trenet snapped._ _

__Sherlock deliberated for a moment or two; wondering whether to escalate the mood in the car yet or let it brew a little longer. He opened his mouth, watching Narek lean forward eagerly; a grin stretching his slightly feral features._ _

__The land rover lurched suddenly, one of the wheels whining and dragging on an unseen obstacle. Sherlock glanced out of the window briefly; they were winding through a narrow ravine peppered with jagged rocks. The stunted gnarled branches of bare trees protruded from the deep whiteness; shrubs growing precariously from the rock faces on either side were heavily weighed down by icicles and snow. The snowfall had stopped, but occasional flurries still swept past the windows, carried by the frigid breeze. Schneider attempted the ease the vehicle forward, but stopped abruptly at the harsh squeal from under the car._ _

__“It is a rock.” Schneider said. “Behind, on the left.”_ _

__“Well move it, then!”_ _

__“I need to be driving the car.” Schneider said slowly, with the merest hint of derision. “We may become stuck.”_ _

__“Narek!”_ _

__“I don’t wear a coat!”_ _

__“I’ll do it.” Sherlock offered brightly._ _

__“Narek, get out of the car now. Do you think that your uncle will like to hear about this?”_ _

__[Oh _god_. He’ll tell him he’ll stop his pocket money next.]_ _

__Narek leaned forward. The knife in his lap slid into his hand almost automatically, unbeknownst to Trenet in the seat ahead. “Trenet, I am not here to pick up your shit. And I do not see my uncle here. Do you?”_ _

__Sherlock watched with interest as the long tapered end of the hunting knife pressed hard into the back of Trenet’s seat. The man had no idea it was there; but Narek twisted it thoughtfully with a flick of his wrist._ _

__[Too soon. Space is too enclosed; it’s a forty foot run along a narrow gully in either direction. Need more open space before lighting this particular fuse…]_ _

__“Honestly, I don’t mind.” Sherlock said helpfully, after a beat. “I’d appreciate some shoes first though.”_ _

__“Shut up, Holmes.” Trenet said, without looking round. “Narek, I am not asking you. Do it. Now.”_ _

__“And I am saying that I know that you begged my uncle to let you come. The only reason you are here Trenet is because your papa paid him. You’ve never been in charge of anything in your life!”_ _

__Throughout the tedious squabbling, Sherlock paid the closest attention to Schneider. He knew enough about Trenet and the foul youth; they were transparent. Dull. The fact that the huge man in the drivers seat did not intervene, did not censure Narek in any way was interesting. How far would this extend? What if Narek decided to drive the knife all the way through the back of Trenet’s seat and into his kidneys; would his minder bother to intercede?_ _

__Trenet suddenly flung open the passenger side door, his ruddy face rigid with fury. He sank several inches into the snow. The sharp breeze ruffled his bleached hair in every direction as he slammed his fist on the window next to Narek._ _

__“Get out of the fucking car!”_ _

__Narek smirked, and ostentatiously pressed the lock down on his door. Trenet looked almost apoplectic with rage, glowering at the young man as he hammered at the window. The frigid air swept into the car through the open passenger side door, carrying the low moan of wind blowing across rocks and deep snow._ _

__When Trenet finally gave up and bent to shove the offending rock out from the wheel arch; Schneider turned in the drivers seat and looked into the back for the first time. Sherlock studied him covertly, taking in his oily dappled cheeks and flat grey eyes. Without the narcotic fog, he was able to pick up a few more precious tells. [Compulsive gambler. Relapses perhaps three times a year. Former military. Discharged several years ago. Vegetarian. Occasional user of crystal meth as well as habitual steroid abuse. Three sisters. Ex-wife. Two ex-wives. No real ambition. He’s valuable, because of that. Wants the money. And unlike this feculent little twit, doesn’t want to be in charge.]_ _

__[Quite an excellent example of a henchman; they’re really rather hard to find these days.]_ _

__“Narek, we still have some way to go.” Schneider said, calmly but with a trace of warning. “He will try to make things difficult when we return to Yerevan.”_ _

__“Ha!” Narek laughed humourlessly, fiddling with the knife and casting a sidelong glance out the window. Trenet’s back was visible, hunching as he hauled at the stubborn rock._ _

__“You think he will last long there?”_ _

__Schneider opened his mouth to respond, but before he could attempt to placate Narek further Sherlock interjected thoughtfully:_ _

__“Mm. I’ve deduced that it was only one. Girl, I mean.” he met Narek’s gaze and gave him an ingratiating little smile, eager to please. “And judging by the way he’s been moving; she left him with a rather persistent little souvenir.”_ _

__Narek stared at him for a long moment, then guffawed loudly. Schneider sighed almost silently, and turned back around; edging the vehicle forward as Trenet rolled the rock away from the wheel._ _

__Trenet threw himself back into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut behind himself; chafing his bare hands which were raw from the cold. He released a colourful tirade of abuse towards Narek in French; which seemed to either go directly over his head or he chose to ignore it as he stared back down at his phone._ _

__The land rover began to move again in earnest, creeping through the steep gully. After perhaps another five minutes it emerged at the far end. The long shadows cast by the surrounding rocky outcrop were suddenly banished, revealing a wide valley, ringed by towering snow-capped mountains. A frozen waterfall cut through the nearest rock face, long vicious icicles dripping with crystalline water that caught the dying light oddly. A distant herd of deer moved slowly along a high ridge, unaware or perhaps uncaring that humans had interrupted the oppressive silence of the glen._ _

__“We are not moving fast enough. We need to be there in less than two hours.” Trenet informed Schneider tersely, as they began to inch down a steep incline. “Head for the gap between those two hills. Next to the lake.”_ _

__They were following a faint track, indicated mainly by rough boulders and occasional posts that protruded through the thick snow. The land rover slipped minutely, the wheels jamming for a second before regaining purchase. Schneider gripped the wheel tightly, and did not respond. Over the mans shoulder, Sherlock noticed how white his knuckles were against the dark leather._ _

__Trenet glared at him. “Schneider, come on. This is fucking Britain, the snow is much worse in Alsace. Did your grandmother teach you to drive like this?”_ _

__“There is ice under the snow.” Schneider replied flatly._ _

__“And I am telling you the plane will only wait so long!” Trenet said sharply. “Hurry up!”_ _

__[Clearly trying to regain the upper hand. Imbecile. He’d have to garrotte someone to gain their respect; not give them a telling off.]_ _

__Narek was watching the exchange with almost as much interest as Sherlock, leaning forward so that he could glance into the front of the land rover._ _

__“Would you prefer to drive?” Schneider asked, coolly._ _

__Trenet swore softly under his breath, and fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. He shook out another and felt around for the book of matches._ _

__“No!” he hissed, batting away Narek’s questing hand that curled around his seat and aimed for the pack of Gitanes. “I said no!”_ _

__“That is the wrong answer, Trenet.” Narek said, mock wearily. Sherlock watched the scene unfold with a kind of horrible detached fascination; it had all been so terribly predictable._ _

__[I thought that it would have been perhaps twenty minutes more. Oh well, at least no one witnessed the lapse.]_ _

__While Narek’s right hand had aimed for the cigarettes over Trenet’s right shoulder, his left hand slipped around the other side of the headrest; the blade of the knife catching the light as it swung through the air. Schneider inhaled deeply, his powerful shoulders lifting in surprise. He lifted one hand, extending it towards Trenet; perhaps to intervene or maybe just to stop him falling across the front seat._ _

__Sherlock had witnessed more than one throat being cut in his time. It was never a tidy affair. The scent of blood erupted in the confined space, spurting across the dashboard and across Schneider’s shoulder and cheek._ _

__He was dimly aware of persistent sawing motion of Narek’s arm and the hoarse almost-squeals of excitement the youth was making; but Sherlock had seen his chance. He lunged forward, over the drivers seat headrest; his hand slipping inside Schneider’s jacket. The huge man was grappling with the steering wheel as the vehicle lurched to one side and began to slide swiftly down the slope. Trenet was listing like a ragdoll towards Schneider. He had barely made a sound as the knife entered his body._ _

__Narek was still busy with his hunting knife; he was spattered with blood and he seemed unaware of the way the land rover was gaining momentum down the slope._ _

__“Narek, STOP!” Schneider was roaring. “STOP THIS NOW!”_ _

__The gun was heavy and disconcertingly warm from Schneider’s body-heat. Sherlock caught his eye in the rear view mirror for a second as he wrenched it from the holster under his arm; but the huge man was too busy hauling at the steering wheel to prevent him from taking it._ _

__[Narek. He’s the immediate danger here. Take him out first. 83% chance of a kill shot, despite the angle. Seven point three second window to dispatch Schneider.]_ _

__Sherlock was clinging precariously to the headrest behind Schneider as he aimed at Narek, cursing the motion of the land rover as he sloppily removed the safety. Narek’s eyes widened almost comically at the sight of Sherlock aiming at his head; his face was peppered with Trenet’s blood and he shifted his weight as he began to swing the knife back around._ _

__The sudden, shattering impact to the right side of the vehicle made Sherlock’s first shot go wide; it punched a hole in the roof and almost deafened him. The vehicle teetered and shook, and Sherlock could hear Schneider swearing repeatedly; real panic colouring his flat tone._ _

__Narek took a swipe with the knife, missing Sherlock by a few inches. The blade was still thickly coated with Trenet’s blood._ _

__They were both abruptly thrown onto the back seat a second later as a second blow hit the right hand side of the car. As he grappled with Narek, Sherlock dimly registered how the landscape was now flickering rapidly past the windows; how the wheels no longer seemed to be turning but they were moving faster than ever down the steep incline.  
Narek was fumbling for his knife, which he had dropped into the footwell. One of his hands was plastered across Sherlock’s face, aiming for his eyes. He was surprisingly heavy, suddenly somehow _reeking_ of sweat, blood and cheap aftershave and it left Sherlock strangely and faintly panicked. He aimed a knee at Narek’s groin, the jarring impact and the resulting pained gasp making his success clear. The gun was somehow tangled in Narek’s top and he wrenched at it desperately, yanking repeatedly before getting it free._ _

__Bringing the butt of the gun smartly down on Narek’s temple as he managed to kick the knife away was deeply satisfying; but the sensation only lasted for a moment or two. As Narek slumped across him, he felt the land rover give one last shuddering lurch. There was a long eerie moment of quiet before momentum picked up; the left side of the vehicle suddenly sailing upwards and pitching the passengers downwards, colliding and rebounding painfully as glass smashed and the seats crushed._ _

__The land rover continued to roll, metal wrenching and screeching painfully as the roof hit the rocky slope. Trenet’s disgustingly warm body hit Sherlock, his eyes half-closed with almost a dreamy expression. Schneider was yelling something about his leg, but that was a distant thing. Sherlock shoved Trenet away from his face, the gun dropping from his hand as he pushed. He reached out blindly, aiming for the handle on the door but all he found was a handful of soft wool jammed between the buckling seat and the door._ _

__[No. Can’t die like this. _Can’t_. Won’t.]_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, just to let you know I am taking part in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction and I'm offering Sherlock, Harry Potter and Check Please! fics to support some amazing charities. Bidding runs from the 12-19 Jan 2017. If you're not interested, I'd still really appreciate it if you could spread the word on Tumblr - details on my blog :)
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> snorklepie.tumblr.com
> 
> I'm hoping to update Savage Music Sombre Light soon, definitely before the end of January. 
> 
> Best wishes
> 
> Snorks


	6. Chapter 6

It took far too long to organise the search party. Anthea remained carefully stoic in the face of John’s frustration, delivering measured instructions to nameless parties on the other end of her phone. It seemed to take forever just to communicate the likely areas of the Cairngorm mountains that the land rover would probably have travelled through. 

Thankfully, neither Anthea or Mycroft wasted time questioning whether Murdy was the best source of information on the local area. The steely glint in her eye and her quiet insistence as she pulled out the maps on the kitchen table spoke volumes. After the briefest of pauses and a glance at Violet, Mycroft bent over the topographical surveys across the table from Murdy, giving the girl his full attention. 

“Sir, according to the Met office there will be a brief break in the weather in approximately half an hour.” Anthea broke in after a few minutes, and Mycroft frowned before he glanced up. “I’m afraid that it’s not going to last long enough for the RAF to undertake a search of the area; but-“  
John’s heart had soared briefly, and then sank once more. He tightened his grip on the edge of the table and forced himself to look up. “Patrick. We need to get him out of here while we can.”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite. I shall go and speak to Major Braithwaite.” 

He stood, turned and walked swiftly from the room without a backwards glance. 

Anthea’s eyes lingered on his back for a long moment. “Very well. I’m going to contact the TA and organise a team to begin the search from the north and northwest. We can approach from the south and east, cutting through this pass initially; and then splitting into two groups. Captain Watson, Miss Vernet; I assume you will be joining us?”

“Obviously.” Violet said, before John could say a word. 

“And me. And Griz.” Murdy said calmly, flattening her palms on the table and staring Anthea down. Anthea met her gaze curiously, clearly deciding against the obvious objections. 

“Murdy, we are going after some horrible bastards who will undoubtedly have plenty of weapons and not much in the way of morals.” Violet interjected seriously. ”They wouldn’t think twice about hurting any of us if we get in their way. You know what they did to Patrick when he tried to stop them taking Sherlock.”

“You’re going to have a hard time finding him at all without me or Griz with you.” Murdy replied bluntly. “It’s not like there’s even GPS or phone coverage up there. All you’ll have is a map and things look different under the snow. Look, I know what you’re saying; I’m not dim. I know it’ll be dangerous. But me and Griz, we know this place. We’ve spent our whole lives in these hills. Yeah, you could go find yourselves some volunteers from the village; but how long’s that going to take? That’s time we don’t have. Doctor Watson, you know I’m making sense, don’t you? I’m here and Griz is just out in the stables. Mister Holmes is getting further away with every minute. I swear I’ll run and hide if it comes to it; I know damn well that trying to fight a kidnapper would be a stupid idea. ~But we’ve got to get him back; and we’re the best chance you’ve got.”

John pressed his face into his hands briefly, trying to sort through his roiling thoughts. He knew this was a terrible idea; every fibre of his being was telling him how wrong, how criminally reckless it would be to bring either of the Antonelli girls with them. It was endangerment, clear and simple; and it could never be justified, even if it meant a better chance of finding Sherlock. 

And yet he tried to ignore the quiet, insistent voice in his head that told him that anything, _anything_ at all would be worth it if it meant they got Sherlock back in one piece, before anyone could hurt him. If it meant that he could sit down with Sherlock and talk to him, to explain that their life together was all that John needed and wanted. Surely anything was worth the risk, if it meant that John had that chance?

He quelled the treacherous thoughts viciously and forced himself to look at Murdy. The kitchen was momentarily quiet – Violet for some reason was rummaging through cupboards and throwing various items onto the counter below. Anthea was checking the door to the pantry, which was bolted securely once more. A few minutes previously, she had made an executive decision to imprison Mary inside once more and moved her into the tiny windowless room. John had watched with a distant kind of wonder as Anthea had bodily lifted Mary, still bound to the heavy wooden chair, and dropped her with a thud into the pantry. She had taken the time to remove the broken shards from the floor and any other glass, ceramic or metal items that could conceivably be fashioned into weapons. Mary had remained silent throughout; she had barely looked up since Violet had prised the knife from John’s unwilling fingers. 

Murdy looked back at him, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her gaze was challenging; but she didn’t say a word. And John hated himself for the fact that the words died in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to say them; couldn’t make himself do the right thing and insist that she go home to the safety of her family. 

“I-“ he attempted, the single syllable emerging and dying. 

“-don’t get to make all the decisions.” Violet said briskly, grabbing hold of a couple of canvas shopping bags from a dresser drawers and beginning to shovel various foodstuffs into them. She pulled two large thermos flasks from another cupboard and set them down on the kitchen table. “John, you’re going to need some warmer clothes. Go and sort yourself out and we’ll leave as soon as we can.” Violet shooed him out of his chair and towards the door. “Murdy is going to help me here with supplies and we’re going to have a little chat.”

 

***

The promised break in the weather arrived, lightening the snowfall a little and allowing brief glimpses of murky sunlight to filter through the heavy grey clouds. As Violet and Anthea efficiently packed the jeeps with supplies, Patrick was carried downstairs and onto one of the military helicopters. John caught a brief glimpse of the young man strapped to a stretcher in the hall, his face pallid and eyes closed. He wore an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and thankfully seemed to be breathing slightly more evenly. 

John was about to go and touch his shoulder, to murmur some vague words to him; when Mycroft appeared at the front door. He had been outside talking to one of the pilots and his shoulders were flecked with snow. One of his hands was worrying something in his jacket pocket. His face tightened as he watched the medics carrying Patrick down the last few steps of the great staircase; but his expression flickered as Patrick’s limp hand suddenly lifted a few inches off the edge of the blanket that swathed him. John watched numbly as Patrick opened his eyes, blinking slowly. Mycroft darted forwards, his hand seeming to move of its own volition as it came to rest on Patrick’s chest. 

“We are taking you to hospital, my dear.” he said quietly, bending towards Patrick’s face. His voice was softer than John had ever heard it. Patrick seemed to be having trouble focussing on him, but his hand came to rest clumsily against Mycroft’s side. “It will be all right Patrick, you just need to hold on a little longer.”

Patrick swallowed convulsively, his eyes flickering around the room; taking in John standing frozen at the entrance to the kitchen corridor and the half-packed jeeps visible through the front door. “Myc… don’t come.”

Mycroft frowned slightly, his eyes betraying an odd, unguarded moment of pain. Patrick coughed feebly, and Mycroft reached out with unsteady fingers to brush the tangled hair out of his eyes.

“Don’t come.” Patrick said again, a little more insistently. “I’ll… be fine. Find him. Then… please. Come and find me.”

“Sir, we must go while we have the chance-” 

Mycroft stared at Patrick for a long moment, the tips of his fingers still touching the side of Patrick’s ashen face. “You shouldn’t be alone. I will come with you to the hospital.”

“Myc, I tried to stop them-“

“I know, my dear - please don’t-“

“No, I tried to stop them because… because I know you don’t allow yourself to love many people. And I know what it would do to you to lose him. So please… _please_ , Mycroft… go and find Sherlock. Don’t… don’t lose him.”

“Time to go!” Major Braithwaite shouted from the doorway. “Move that stretcher now!”

Mycroft stood back, his face aghast. His hands fell limply back to his sides. Patrick’s eyes slid shut as the medics jogged forward, carrying him down the steps and towards the open door of the helicopter. John was struggling over what to say to Mycroft when Violet bustled into the hall, well wrapped up and carrying a large pile of heavy coats and sweaters from the cloakroom. 

“Come on chaps, leaving in two minutes. If you’re coming with us, Mycroft; get some of these on. There’s boots in that chest over there that will probably fit you.”

She dropped the pile of garments unceremoniously on the floor next to the unlit fireplace and strode outside into the snow. After a moment, Mycroft turned and bent stiffly, picking up one of the heavy waxed jackets. John waited for a moment, before following Violet outside. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what to say to Mycroft. The man wouldn’t welcome platitudes or empty words; he saw through them before they were even uttered. John could almost feel how torn Mycroft was over the decision to go with Patrick to Aberdeen or to assist with finding Sherlock. The pained look in his eyes as he stood over Patrick had been a kind of revelation. John wished he hadn’t seen it.

***

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how long he had been unconscious when he became aware of an odd combination of heat and frigid cold along the length of his ill-clothed body. The cold was the most unpleasant part, bitter and wet against his torso and the side of his face; soaking his thin pajama top. In comparison to this sorry state of affairs, his bottom half was beautifully warm although his legs were tangled up and constricted, and not entirely easy to move.

Actually the heat was becoming a little oppressive. The icy air that was swirling into Sherlock’s nose and mouth was mixed with intermittent swirls of dark, oily smoke. This last fact was the one that propelled his eyelids open and cleared his slightly jumbled thoughts with admirable speed.

The land rover lay upturned at the bottom of the towering glen, gentle wisps of smoke slithering from under the bonnet and curling upwards through the gently falling snow. One of the wheels was still turning gently, although another had been ripped off altogether, probably due to an impact with one of the huge granite boulders that dotted the blinding white slopes. Sherlock was lying on his side, half-out of the back seat; his head half-ploughed into a snowdrift. He sighed and winced as he attempted to roll onto his back, catching sight of Schneider who was still behind the wheel. The large bald man was still wearing his seatbelt, dangling upside down in the front of the vehicle and surrounded by the remains of the shattered windscreen. The strange angle of his neck made it very clear that Schneider probably didn’t care very much about this fact any more.

Sherlock had only managed to manoeuvre himself a few degrees onto his back, before coming to an abrupt halt; his torso twisted in a way that caused a sudden spasm of pain in his lower back. His head ached damnably. Trenet’s corpse was curled on top of his legs, his horribly lolling head pressed against the side of Sherlock’s right thigh. The blood was still dripping and oozing from what had once been his throat; it was rapidly soaking through the grey fabric of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms. The gory stain spread and cooled in the icy air.

[For gods sake, I actually rather liked these ones! Entirely sure that John spent at least a week choosing them and now this bloody gormless twit is ruining them with his wretched arterial seepage. Ghastly. I’d pistol whip him for it if he wasn’t already deceased. Might still do it once I’m out, if I’m in the mood.]

[Pressing question is though, where is the other one? No sounds coming from the wreckage. With luck the impact killed him; decidedly fortunate that I went through the window and into the drift. Can’t see anything beyond this fool’s body; the passenger seat has been crushed backwards. Must be what’s pinning my right foot; can feel the metal support against my metatarsus. I suppose the other pressing question is, how long until the fuel tank ruptures and ignites? Given the increase in smoke production and internal temperature, the sound of rapidly heating metal under the bonnet… three and a half minutes?]

A couple of large black crows came to settle on a nearby boulder, regarding Sherlock with sharp curious eyes as they turned their heads this way and that. They ruffled up their feathers against the gently falling snow, in no hurry to leave. He glared at them before beginning to push at Trenet’s body, trying to find purchase with his left feet and pushing away from whatever toehold he could find. 

[Could do without the audience, this is undignified enough. I know their game. Just waiting till I give up and then it’s eyeball tartare for lunch. God the countryside is _hateful._ ]

After a couple of false starts, he managed to find purchase against the remains of the passenger seat and pushed hard with his left foot, eventually managing to pull his leg free from under Trenet and prodding the dead man’s remains to one side. This allowed him a better view of his right, down to his shin where the buckled passenger seat covered his foot and ankle. He could still move his toes without pain, but his ankle was trapped underneath two protruding bars of metal.

[Two and a half minutes.]

Sherlock gritted his teeth and hauled himself into a half-sitting position on the edge of the car window frame, and grabbed hold of Trenet’s shoulders. He heaved, panting, the strain in his back and shoulders forcing a pained gasp from between his teeth. Trenet’s body collapsed like a macabre puppet on top of him, his bloody face pressed messily against Sherlock’s heaving stomach. He gave himself two seconds to brace himself, then roughly heaved the man to his left and side. Trenet rolled into the snow, staining the deep whiteness instantly with the slow persistent trickle of his blood. Sherlock ignored this and returned his attention to the back of the land rover, which was a confusion of destroyed upholstery, broken glass and tortured metal. Three more crows squawked loudly, taking off from the twisted undercarriage that now faced the sky. 

Sherlock evaluated his surroundings, taking in the disturbed snow and boulders around him. Several superficial pieces of the land rover had separated from the main body during the impact, the snow littered with pieces of debris. The gun he had liberated from Schneider lay uselessly several feet away, half-buried in the snow. Nothing within reach seemed particularly promising for use as a lever, and after a couple of seconds he gritted his teeth once more and laboriously bent himself nearly in half; reaching for the bars that trapped his ankle. 

[One minute and forty seconds]

At first the ruined passenger seat seemed immovable, the crumpled mass of metal supports, springs and shredded filling refusing to budge as he hauled on it with all his might. His muscles screamed silently as he pulled, his fingers darting around, exploring, trying every fingerhold they could find. 

[One minute, five seconds. Might be time to consider amputation if I had a little longer. Sawing one’s own foot off probably requires more equipment than a pair of blood-soaked pajamas and a snapped-off wing mirror. If John were here, I wonder if he’d do it for me? Probably take a bit of persuasion. Rather lose a foot than a hand. Or would I? Could walk on a prosthetic foot, but couldn’t play the violin with sufficient accuracy with a replacement hand. Couldn’t run so fast (probably a maximum of 12.7 miles per hour, but could still…]

[Focus!]

Abandoning his efforts to pull the seat towards him, he braced his left foot against it and began to kick. The impact of each blow resulted in a sharp, brutal sting against his ankle as the metal bars abraded his skin; digging viciously into the muscle. 

[Been through worse. Unlikely to break. Severe sprain at worst. Better than alternative. Bugger fuck damn damn DAMN that hurts!]

A moment later he nearly shouted aloud when he experienced a sudden warm, wet pressure against the sole of his bare foot. It was a strange, slightly sticky sensation; the skin cooling swiftly before the pressure returned, running the length of his exposed arch. His stomach rolled dangerously as he heard a slurred but instantly recognisable voice come from the other side of the wreck. 

“Come on, Mr. Holmes! You can’t escape this?”

Sherlock stayed utterly still for a long beat, horribly aware of his trapped foot which must only be inches away from Narek Harman. Certainly within easy reach of his tongue. Briefly, Sherlock felt an acute need to vomit, picturing the young man silently biding his time as he listened to Sherlock’s attempts to free himself. Watching his bare toes flex and the blood flow from his grazed skin. 

“Well I suspect that you can’t get out either.” he forced himself to reply, after taking a deep breath. “I very much doubt that you would choose to stay in the wreckage of a car that is clearly going to catch fire shortly.”

“Oh, I think we can still have some fun before that happen.” Narek replied cheefully. His words were a little laboured and sloppy but his tone was full of conspiratorial mischief. 

“We die in the snow or we die in the fire. No real difference. Tell me, Mister Holmes. You ever taste your own blood?”

Sherlock felt another wet slide of warm tongue against his skin and he gave in to his instinctive reaction to resume hammering on the seat with his left foot; hoping against hope that it would give way and crush the twisted youth behind it. His trapped ankle was wreathed in agony at each blow; but at least this distracted him from the irrational creeping horror of Narek licking his skin.

[Forty five seconds. Faint give at the lower edge; redirect pressure by five centimetres to the right-]

Finally, _finally_ Sherlock heard a minute squeal of metal against metal that indicated that one of the support poles was beginning to shift under the force of his attack. 

“Mr. Holmes, you know I think I can still reach my knife?” Narek said after a moment. “It’s a nice knife. I only got it last week. It would be a shame if I never use it properly…”

Sherlock directed the heaviest, most vicious kick he could muster at the seat; feeling it give way another fraction. Distantly he could hear scrabbling sounds from the other side of the passenger seat, followed by an almost comically indignant ‘ow!’ when a large portion of twisted metal sprang loose under Sherlock’s foot. 

[Twenty five seconds] 

Another metal supporting pole bent and snapped, followed shortly by another. A slow, almost tender slide of steel along the ball of Sherlock’s foot made him pause momentarily, before he resumed his onslaught; his heart hammering sickeningly in his chest. He battered at the rapidly crumpling mass with his heel, hardly able to breathe as he felt the point of the knife began to insinuate itself between his toes. He was barely aware of his own effort; his movements were instinctive, frantic and brutal as he kicked harder and harder. 

He felt the skin breaking at almost the same moment as the passenger seat gave way, collapsing with a metallic shriek. Sherlock wrenched his right foot back, dragging himself backwards as swiftly as possible. From the mess at the other end of the space, an arm moved erratically; the large serrated hunting knife smeared with blood clenched in a tight fist. Narek lay in a heap on the ripped ceiling, one leg lying at a deeply unnatural angle. He pushed at the tangled mess that now lay across his body peevishly. He glared at Sherlock; his teeth bared. The way his chest was hitching made it clear that breathing was becoming increasingly difficult, his breath sounding wet and laboured.

They exchanged a long, wordless glance. Narek made another feeble swipe with his knife but his heart was clearly no longer in it. 

[Ten seconds.]

Sherlock suddenly felt crushingly, horribly tired. His head wheeled and ached, his stomach seething with nausea. For a moment he was almost tempted just to sink where he was, to await his fate with Narek. 

[Perhaps he’s right. Freeze or burn, what difference does it make, really?]

His gaze at the wreckage around them, the snow falling and beginning to melt in the growing heat from the vehicle. The crows cawed sharply behind him, causing Sherlock to stir slightly. One of them was pecking at a dark green bundle in the snow nearby, something caught on the stunted branch of a pine. Sherlock glared at it and began to heave himself over the edge of the doorframe; forcing his shaking legs to propel him into the deep snow beyond. 

In the end, it was twelve seconds before the fire reached the fuel line. Sherlock had already limped thirty feet in his freezing bare feet; a bundle of green wool clutched tight between his unsteady fingers. 

Narek’s cries didn’t last long, borne away on the icy breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, just to let you know I am taking part in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction and I'm offering Sherlock, Harry Potter and Check Please! fics to support some amazing charities. Bidding finishes tomorrow, 19 Jan 2017. If you're not interested, I'd still really appreciate it if you could spread the word on Tumblr - details on my blog :)
> 
> http://fandomtrumpshateofferings.tumblr.com/tagged/snorklepie
> 
> snorklepie.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

The two jeeps rolled slowly out of the driveway of Hilderbogie house, picking up speed as they reached the slightly wider country road that lead towards the towering peaks and dark valleys of the Cairngorms. The snow had begun to fall once more; but for now the roads were passable, packed with a crust of frozen snow and banked on either side with ice-laden fences. As John stared through the window of Mr. Brodie’s old farm transport, he took in the leaden sky and lengthening shadows that streaked the empty fields. The sun had already begun to slink towards the horizon, the surrounding countryside darkening steadily. 

Mr. Brodie was away for the day but Griz had quickly found the spare keys to the battered farm jeep in one of the stable outbuildings. She accepted as a matter of course that she was going to help find Sherlock; and had casually slung a couple of hunting rifles into the back of the jeep before sliding into the passenger seat next to Anthea.  
Mycroft was behind the wheel of Patrick’s considerably newer, plush model, with Murdy at his side. It occurred to John that he had never seen Mycroft driving any vehicle, let alone a large jeep; but the assured way he swept out of the drive made it clear that he was more than up to the task. Before Violet had climbed up into the back seat she had gripped the lapel of John’s jacket and kissed him hard, leaving a smear of blood red lipstick on his pale cheek. Briefly, she rested her forehead against his. Her mismatched eyes flickered shut, and she inhaled deeply. 

“Right, John Watson, you glorious twerp. We’re going to find him and bring him home and that’s the absolute fucking _end_ of it.”

He nodded wordlessly, feeling his tight breathing ease very slightly at her touch. His pulse was uncomfortably loud in his chest, a pounding staccato rhythm that had never quite returned to normal since he had left Sherlock alone in their bedroom. 

_____________________________________________

Sherlock knew, of course, that it was perhaps not his most brilliant moment when he decided to start walking barefoot through what was shaping up to be a quite impressive snow-storm, in the middle of a remote mountain range. His total possessions included some blood-stained pajamas, a rather nice sweater that nevertheless did little to keep out sub-zero cold, and an efficient but currently fairly useless revolver. He had been in worse situations, certainly. But he was having a hard time thinking of more than five of them at this particular moment. 

He knew that the logical thing to do would have been to stay nearby, to shelter in whatever remained of the burnt-out vehicle. To scavenge whatever supplies he could from the wreckage. He’d stolen shoes off a corpse more than once in his time. All three of his captors had worn decent winter jackets, but he supposed both footwear and clothing were most likely incinerated by now, along with their owners. 

_[Look, it’s alright to admit you just wanted to get away, Sherlock. The aftereffects of the drug alone and after the way that bastard was touching you-]_

[Shut up, John.]

[No, come back.]

Sherlock paused in the slight shelter offered by a pile of massive granite boulders and a stunted pine tree, huddling into the dank shadows. His right ankle throbbed, the skin abraded and grazed where it had been trapped in the wreckage. The skin of his feet burned with the cold, his toes rapidly going numb. 

_[You could still go back. The fire won’t last long in this weather. He’ll be long dead by now.]_

[And everything of use will be gone by now. No point.] 

_[Sherlock this isn’t rational; you’re not making any sense! The vehicle is a landmark, people looking for you will notice it. They’ll find it first. You need to stay close to it.]_

“What do you care, anyway?” Sherlock snapped, realising a second later that he said the words aloud. He usually managed to keep his mind-palace conversations with John inside his head. But his head hurt damnably, and it was too loud in there at the moment. Ridiculously, he felt slightly ashamed. He knew just what John’s face would look like after hearing those words. His jaw would tighten and his eyes would go stony, but it would be just a little too late to hide the immediate hurt. 

[sorry.]

_[Look, you need shelter and you need insulation.]_ John’s voice was quiet and measured. _[You can’t just lurk next to a bunch of bloody rocks, you need to find something that’s going to keep the snow off you and you need to get dry. People will try and find you but I’m sorry Sherlock, it might take a while.]_

[Oh, yes. I’ll just pop along to the nearest camping equipment shop, shall I? I think there’s a Costa next door, too. Shall I fetch you one of those ghastly flavoured coffees that you pretend not to like?]

_[stop being such an utter prat. You’re the bloody genius, get your head sorted and figure something out. Now.]_

_____________________________________________________________________

That particular July in Aberdeenshire was unusually warm, filled with hazy sunshine and drifting clouds that sank and rose along the glens and rivers. The evenings were long, full of blueish shadows and the sleepy coo of wood pigeons. The scent of rosemary, lemon thyme and mint in the low walled gardens wafted through open windows and doors, filling the still rooms of Hilderbogie House with a heady, pervasive fragrance. 

The hour between six and seven usually found Violet, Sherrinford and the elder Mr. and Mrs. Holmes having an aperitif on one of the lawns, seated under an arbour of trailing ivy and vines. However, since the arrival of Sherlock the previous week this ritual had not been observed quite so regularly. 

Sherrinford reclined on an ornate wrought-iron bench, dressed as impeccably as ever. His green paisley cravat was tied to an aching level of perfection that belied Violet’s influence, although she was nowhere to be seen. He was on his second glass of pernod, the milky liquid glinting in the late sun. His mother sat bolt upright at his side, staring out over the empty lawns and scanning the windows and doors of the house. She was yet to touch the glass at her side, and her small elegant hands slowly tangled and teased at the heavy strands of pearls at her neck. Her husband was lost in a book on the wildlife of Borneo, occasionally losing his place as he was forced to give in to sporadic coughing fits. 

Occasional bursts of laughter and noise came from the direction of the house kitchens, but there was still no sign of the two youngest members of the household coming to join them.

_______________________________________________________

Violet taught Sherlock many things during his various sojourns at Hilderbogie, although perhaps he did not appreciate all of them as much as he could. 

“Vi, this is both tedious and _deeply_ impractical. Why on earth would I ever go to this much effort-”

“Perhaps when you don’t have me in the vicinity, you damnable oik. _No_ , not like that! It’ll fracture! Gently, see? We’re aiming to lessen the temperature shock. Now, once it’s in the water the ovotransferrins begin to bond with each other, creating a matrix. Ten seconds, and take it out again. Exactly ten! And…..lift!”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and reached for the perforated metal scoop that lay nearby on the worn wooden countertop. Violet, dressed for dinner in sapphire blue crepe de chine, watched keenly from her seat on the draining-board. She was hawk-like in her surveillance as he carefully slipped it into the depths of the roiling water, twirling a stop-watch between her fingers. 

“That’s right. Now, feel it – see how the balance of weight has changed? That means that the ovalbumin will have begun to cross-link and solidify-“

“Yes, thank you, I am not a _total_ idiot-”

“Shut it. Now, a short sharp blow with a narrow blade…”

“Mrs. Holmes, ma’am – I’m sorry to interrupt but I really do need to start on the…“

“So sorry, Agnes; I swear we’re nearly finished. It’s his eighth attempt; he’ll have to get the hang of it soon…”

“This is _utterly_ pointless!”

“No, no – you’ve got to gently swirl it-“

“Has he remembered the vinegar, ma’am?”

“Nonsense Agnes, vinegar is for filthy cheaters! And really, couldn’t you please find it in your heart to call me Violet, perhaps?”

“Errr… sorry ma’am. It’s just that the other Mrs. Holmes, I don’t think she’d-”

“Oh hell! Never mind. Look at that! I think he’s got it!”

Sherlock gently slipped the slotted spoon back into the pot and slowly lifted out the trembling white opaque oval. His eyes were narrowed and intent as he let the excess droplets of water fall back into the simmering water, and with a gentle smooth movement slipped it onto the willow-pattern plate that Violet held out. 

“And _that_ , you dismal worm, is how you poach an egg. Well done.”

Violet peered down at the plate with satisfaction, resting it on her knees. She beamed at Sherlock, her blue eyes glittering with conspiratorial pride. Although Sherlock was flushed from the steam from the pot on the stove he turned a slightly darker shade of pink, and shrugged carelessly.

“It’s appalling, Agnes. They really do teach them nothing practical at these schools.”

“Ma’am, er- are there _any_ eggs left? It’s just, um, the soufflé-”

_____________________________________________________________

While Sherlock grudgingly picked up the basics of cookery, he was also developing his knowledge of other areas. Some of these were obviously useful, such as how to pick pockets in a crowd; or how to identify over thirty different types of common paper and various kinds of writing instruments from their ink. He learnt how to decipher the professions and proclivities of those around him based on the level of sun-exposure to their skin and the callouses on their hands. 

He learnt some things that he never knew would be useful. 

______________________________________________________________

Late morning, on an April day of torrential rain. All members of the household were indoors, occupied with reading or paperwork or crossword puzzles. The workers on the estate sat around in the shelter of the stables or the barns, staring gloomily out at the rain as they drank cooling tea from enamelled mugs and huddled from the damp chill.

Sherlock sat on the long embroidered ottoman in Violet’s bedroom, his bare feet propped up on the chippendale dressing table. An open book on the history of metallurgy lay in his lap, but he was paying only a minimal amount of attention to the text. Violet was busily rummaging through drawers and extracting a variety of small bottles and vials, tossing them carelessly onto the floor next to Sherlock. 

“Now, the level of residual moisture is key,” she explained. “Too much and it’s pointless; anything you add to it will be hopelessly diluted. Too little and it’ll get hopelessly weighed down.”

“You ghastly hag, I couldn’t care less-“

“Not right now you don’t. Believe me though, you will thank me for this someday. Also, you really do need to take atmospheric conditions into account. A day like today requires extra time and preparation due to humidity levels. Right, give me an estimate. How much time has passed since total saturation?”

Sherlock tipped his head back and sighed heavily. “Twenty three minutes.”

“Perfect.” Violet said approvingly, and came to stand behind him. She began to comb through his shaggy dark curls, which hung past the collar of his worn tee shirt; separating and twisting the thick locks around her fingers. Sherlock stopped pretending to pay any attention to the book in his lap and watched her in the mirror, taking in her absorbed face and the sensation of her hands in his hair. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact it was quite the opposite. Although he suspected that this probably had quite a lot to do with the fact that it was Violet’s hands in his hair, rather than anybody else’s. 

“So, you start with a small amount of product, smoothed across your palms and fingers. Never apply it directly to the hair, you won’t get it through evenly enough and you end up with greasy patches here and there. And never, ever comb it when it’s anything less than _completely_ soaking wet. That’s why you end up with this frizz at the back here.”

“Grandmother insisted on me combing my hair before dinner last night; it’s not _my_ fault.”

“Well she’s hardly going to understand the challenges of curly hair, is she? I’m fairly sure she’s had that iron chignon since _birth._ ” Violet muttered, her fingers methodically working at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “I really do think you should get this cut though, you pestilential louse. I’m all for the Romantic poet look, but frankly a bird could nest in here. And your split ends are appalling.”

“You do it, then.” Sherlock said carelessly, determinedly returning to his book and catching the frayed cuff of his sleeve between his teeth. “I don’t care.”

Violet paused as she reached for another dab of product from an ornate glass bottle. She frowned, then slowly resumed her work. “I thought you were attached to this mop. You always kick up a fuss or ignore anyone who suggests you cut it. Your mum practically begged you at Christmas and you wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Dull. Waste of time, going to the barbers.” Sherlock pointed out, not looking up from the book. “Don’t like it.” He added a second later, his voice toneless. 

“Oh?” Violet asked vaguely, watching the coils of damp hair slip through her fingers. Sherlock’s posture was strange, shifting minutely as she touched his scalp and smoothed the strands. On one level he seemed defensive and shut off, in the characteristic way when he felt out of his depth or wanted to avoid a tricky subject. “So… say if I got some scissors and took a few inches off, nothing too drastic… that would be alright with you?”

She watched Sherlock give a one-shouldered shrug in the mirror, his gaze not shifting from the first paragraph of the book in his lap. “Just don’t get too creative. Don’t care.”

“Very well. It’ll have to be dry first, but I’ll have a go later.” Violet murmured. She continued to work silently, putting each curl in order. His hair was the darkest shade of brown before it could truthfully be called black, with odd hints of deep copper when it caught the murky daylight. The texture was slightly less coarse than her own red, unexpectedly soft to the touch. 

“You don’t mind this?” she asked curiously, unable to help herself. 

He raised one thick eyebrow and met her gaze in the long oval mirror. “Clearly not.”

“But you don’t like the barber touching your hair.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but his expression clearly communicated his boredom with the subject. Violet contemplated giving the lock she was working on a sharp yank, but managed to resist.

“You generally don’t seem to like people touching you.” Violet pointed out, her tone neutral. 

Sherlock sighed heavily. “If that were true, I would hardly let you paw me like this.”

“Excuse me, I am bestowing yet more of my valuable knowledge on your ungrateful arse.” She smirked, tweaked his ear. 

Sherlock returned to his book, and turned the page. Violet decided not to pursue the matter, and resumed her work; meticulously neatening and ordering the unruly dark waves. 

“Generally, I don’t.” Sherlock murmured, without looking up. “And that can be… inconvenient at times. Things like shaking hands or passing a dish at dinner are fine. I don’t exactly enjoy kissing Grandmother hello, but I’m used to it by now. I’ve managed to avoid most games at school, because rugby was… a bit difficult at times. Boxing and fencing though, they’re all right. I don’t mind it when Mummy or Father touch me. But I suppose they don’t do it much. Because like you, they’ve noticed that I don’t much like most people touching me.”

Violet nodded wordlessly, deftly perfecting the top layer of curls. Sherlock still didn’t look up from the page. A long pause. 

“And… I sort of… like it. When you do it.” He muttered finally, with clear reluctance. His shoulders hunched, a hard uncomfortable line. “It felt a bit strange at first. Not bad. Unfamiliar? And now that I’m used to it, it’s…”

“It’s a tricky one, isn’t it?” Violet mused, dropping her hands onto his shoulders and squeezing them gently, feeling him relax a fraction. “After I left Norway, it took me a long time to get used to anyone laying a hand on me. Nearly broke a man’s arm once when he stopped me for directions in a train station. And the worst part was, I _wanted_ to be touched at the same time. Because nobody’d ever done it with kindness before. I was touch-starved, but I was a bit scared of it too. What it could mean, what peoples’ expectations would be… maybe it would have been easier if I just didn’t want it at all. And I’m not really talking about sex here,” she added. “Although that’s definitely part of it. It took me a long time before I could even think about getting involved with someone; trusting someone enough with that side of me.”

“Is there a point to all this?” Sherlock asked quietly, with an attempt at brusqueness that really didn’t work terribly well. Violet kicked the leg of the ottoman that he sat upon, but didn’t lift her hands from his angular shoulders. 

“My point is this: it’s alright to want to be touched by some people, people that you’re comfortable with. It’s also alright to keep your own space from others. You don’t owe that to anyone; nobody’s got the right to lay a hand on you.”

“I _know_.”

“If anyone tries that with you, I’ll give them _such_ a kicking. And it’s alright to _ask,_ you blithering git.” Violet said, letting go and turning to tidy up the detritus of styling products and tools. “Usually when you like having someone touch you-”

____________________________________________________________________

“Sherlock, love- I’m sorry, I know this must have been important but how is all this helping you right now?” 

John’s voice broke in, insistent and yet a little hesitant. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the two figures in the bedroom, and the scene swirled gently as his attention turned to John. He stood in the door of Violet’s room, face anxious and his hand gripping the heavy wrought iron handle tightly. Sherlock frowned, feeling a little defensive. 

“She- I learnt things while I was here. They were important. Things about-“ he swallowed hard. “Christ, John. I wish you were with me.”

“I know.” John gave him a tight, unhappy smile. “I do. But you’ve got to get yourself together, the temperature’s dropping even further. There’s only going to be another hour of daylight and your circulation’s already slowing down. People are looking for you; but you’ve got to keep yourself safe until they reach you. Find something in here, something that’s really, truly going to help.”

Sherlock nodded, although a part of him wanted to stay in Violet’s bedroom. He could feel the phantom trails of her hands in his hair, the calmness and safety of the rainy April morning. At the same time he could feel an aching chill in his hands and feet, far more than was warranted in the cool air of the bedroom.

“She really did teach me some useful things, you know.” He mused, turning back to John. But the doorway was empty once more. 

_______________________________________________________________

“Christ on a bike, Sherlock! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?!” Violet hissed, as she hauled open the back door to the kitchen. “I’m all for surprise visits, but it’s fucking two in the morning and there’s a bloody snowstorm raging out there!”

“Thank you, I had noticed.” Sherlock snapped, dropping his rucksack on the kitchen floor with a heavy wet thump. Snow cascaded off the shoulders of his jacket and his hat as he began to pull them off with numb fingers. “It was sodding ten degrees Celsius when I got on the train at Harrow.”

Violet helped him off with his jacket, throwing it carelessly over the back of a chair. Sherlock was visibly shaking as he sank into the seat nearest the stove, struggling to toe off his school shoes. His hair hung in his face, dripping with melted snow. Violet stepped forward smartly, and brushed a sodden clump of curls from his cheek. She gritted her teeth as he flinched, taking in the darkening bruise and patches of broken skin across the cheekbone; attempting to quell the surge of fury that coursed through her. 

“It’s not that bad.” Sherlock said flatly. “And if you feel like fussing, my hand hurts quite a lot more. Fotherington-Thomas’s overactive mouth turned out to be regrettably hard in parts.” 

“Is he sorry?” Violet asked tersely, easing Sherlock’s knitted glove off his swollen hand. 

“Oh yes. _Extremely._ ” Sherlock assured her, hissing slightly as she prodded the abraded knuckles of his left hand. 

“Good. Although you’d have been bloody sorry if you’d broken something that stopped you playing, you rancid goon.” She pointed out. “You should’ve had ice on this hours ago! Hang on.”

Sherlock relaxed a little, leaning back into his chair tiredly. Violet grabbed a large soup tureen as she passed the dresser on her way to the door. She opened it and stooped to hastily scoop an armful of clean snow into the dish, before kicking it shut again smartly. 

“Come on. Stick it in here. I’ll clean up your face and we’ll ice it too. We can’t have your grandmother seeing you like this. She’ll insist on a complaint being made to the school. If it hasn’t gone down by morning, we’ll just have to say you had some kind of accident.”

Sherlock gingerly sank his raw knuckles into the tureen as Violet busied herself with cleaning his grazed cheekbone. The tense discomfort in his face was gradually replaced with relief as his fingers went numb in the depths of the snow. He closed his eyes wearily, listening to her bustle around the kitchen. He was on the verge of sleep when she slapped a handful of something cool, damp and fragrant on the abrasion. 

“What the hell are you putting on my face?!”

“Parsley, bit of lavender. Splash of vodka to disinfect. It’s the business for bringing down bruises in a hurry,” Violet informed him, grabbing Sherlock’s uninjured hand and making him hold the muslin wrapped bundle to his face. He wrinkled his nose at the strong fragrance, but didn’t argue. 

After slinging the kettle onto the stove, she sank into the seat opposite him, wrapping her silk velvet dressing gown tightly around herself and tucked her feet up. “I’m not entirely sure about English schools, but I don’t really think that this is the mid-term hols, is it?”

“No.” Sherlock confirmed, after a lengthy pause. 

“Want to tell me about it?”

“No. Not now, anyhow. It- it’s nothing really.” He swallowed hard, and glared down at the melting snow in the tureen. “Just. Just- talk to me for a bit, alright?”

Violet worried the end of her long messy plait between two restless fingers, and nodded after a moment. “Very well. Want some tea?”

“Cigarette and a whisky would be better.”

Violet fished around in the pocket of her dressing gown for her cigarette case and handed it over, before getting to her feet. “I’ll make you a hot toddy, it’ll help you warm up at bit. Hang on.”

He watched her silently as she began to fetch various ingredients from cupboards around the kitchen; pouring whisky into a thick heavy glass and adding a slice of lemon studded with pungent cloves. She swirled a large spoonful of dark honey into the mixture before adding some hot water and stirring briskly. She dropped a cinnamon stick into the glass with the air of someone adding a glacé cherry to an ice-cream sundae and pressed it into Sherlock’s outstretched hands. 

“That snow’s melting; we’ll need to get some more in a bit.” she pointed out, pouring a couple of fingers of the peaty whisky into a glass for herself and sitting back down. 

“In a minute.” Sherlock murmured, pressing the compress against the side of his face a little harder as the pain ebbed away slowly. “Hmm… This actually seems to be working.”

“’Course it’s working. I wouldn’t have bothered giving it to you otherwise.” Violet retorted, curling up in her chair and leaning towards the heat of the low-burning stove. 

“When did you learn about that?” Sherlock asked, faintly curious. “Was it in one of the manuscripts here?”

Violet shook her head. “No, something I picked up back then… back in Norway. One of the cooks told me, when I was helping out in the kitchen. Came in useful now and again. I spent a lot of time outdoors, had to work with what I had to hand. Snow in the winter. Contents of the kitchen garden in summer.”

“I’d have done it sooner.” Sherlock glared into the tureen of melting snow, fury and a kind of sick sorrow roiling through him along with the nicotine. 

“Would you, though?” Violet asked him, evenly. The hand that raised her black cigarette to her lips was almost entirely steady. “You say that now. But have you ever really contemplated taking a life? Even those bastards who’ve tormented you at school? It’s one thing to want to retaliate; to give as good as you get. We all want revenge at some point or another. It’s quite another thing to decide to take away someone’s existence. I’m still not sure if it was the right thing to do, to be honest. When I can’t sleep I start to wonder…”

“Would you still be alive if you hadn’t done it?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’d say there would have been a fifty-fifty chance, more or less.” Violet tapped some ash distractedly into the open door of the stove. “Fuck, let’s not go down this particular conversational alley, shall we? Won’t help either of us sleep.”

Sherlock nodded, taking a long sip of his drink.

“I liked that cook, actually.” Violet mused. “Greta. She was rubbish at mayonnaise and her hollandaise was frankly laughable; but we had a power cut once and we couldn’t find any matches, so she taught me how to build a fire with sticks and twigs and pine needles. That was certainly useful, when I was out in the woods in winter. She’d grown up deep in the country, not many creature comforts. Taught me quite a lot that came in useful when I was avoiding him. A few times I had to stay out of the house overnight, so I needed to be able to face the cold.”

“How?”

“Mmmm… oh, various ways. I established a few boltholes here and there with some basic supplies, so that was useful. You can do without food for quite a while, but water’s essential. You can’t eat snow, if you’re already cold it’s going to lower your body temperature even faster. You need to melt it, say with a rock that you’ve warmed in your hands or under your arm. Ideally in a container of some description, but failing that; just your palm will do. Staying as dry as you can is just as important, getting a layer of insulation between yourself and the ground is essential. I always used to carry a knife in those days, so I used it to cut down pine boughs. Made a kind of shelter out of them a couple of times, against a tree.” Violet’s eyes had grown vague and hazy as she delved into the memories. “Staying dry, that’s the main thing. If you can’t do that and you’re in low enough temperatures, you’ll be on the way out. If you’re soaked through, it can help if you can get some dry material between your skin and your wet clothes. I used to stuff leaves, old sacking, anything I could get my hands on inside my jumpers. Even pine boughs a couple of times.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“It certainly was, but it sped up drying my clothes. It let a bit more air circulate, and that gets warmed by your body and then-“

Sherlock drifted slowly as she talked, only listening with half an ear as the level of his hot toddy went down and the warmth of the kitchen seeped through him. 

He watched himself impatiently, straining to recall her precise words as the memory grew increasingly hazy. He recalled his eyelids growing heavier and heavier, his head nodding forward until she had half-laughed mid-reminiscence and prodded him out of the kitchen and up to bed in his usual chilly guest room. 

[Well. Pine boughs and stones are two things I certainly have plenty of.]

__________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how much time passed as he wandered around his memories, peering through windows and around doors; listening to idle conversations and occasional arguments in the rooms of Hilderbogie house. He cobbled together scraps of information, becoming more and more irate as the wisps of information seemed to trail away as soon as he found them, smoke drifting through his grasping fingers. He couldn’t remember the last time the retrieval process had been so inefficient. Part of the problem was John. He kept appearing in corners, casting concerned looks at Sherlock and glancing at his watch. He saw him wandering across the lawns, through the open kitchen door. 

As Sherlock feverishly attempted to recall the contents of some books on Victorian arctic exploration in the library, John sat on the windowseat and gave a meaningful cough. He was oddly tanned, and thinner than Sherlock had seen him in years. His hair was sandy, with only an occasional glint of silver catching the light through the leaded windows behind him. 

“No stick, though.” John pointed out, with a thin smile. “Not right now. Listen, Sherlock. I mean _really_ listen. There’s a reason this is becoming more difficult to recall, you know there is.”

“I’m getting there!” Sherlock snapped. “And I’d get there an awful lot faster if you would stop bloody _distracting_ me every two minutes.”

The lettering on the spines of the books was becoming blurrier, the letters sliding down and tumbling into a mess on the shelf below. The fire was burning lower and lower in the grate, the room edging further into darkness. The only remaining brightness was coming through the window; the lamps were unlit although he had been almost sure there had been a couple lit when he entered the room. 

“I’m not distracting you, you tit.” John said sharply. “I’m _you_ , Sherlock, remember? I’m trying to draw your attention to the fact that you need to get yourself together and save yourself. Because I’m not going to be able to do it for you, not this time.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the shelf heavily, inhaling the comforting smell of leather, traces of dust and woodsmoke. The library was growing steadily colder, his feet icy against the stone floor. The scent of pine became more apparent, a chilly breeze slipping through a window that he was sure hadn’t been open when he entered the room. 

The pressure of John’s hand on his shoulder was a strange thing, both insubstantial as mist and achingly warm in the frigid room. He sighed as John’s hand slipped down his back, sliding around his side and pulling him against the length of his solid, compact body. He could feel the brush of John’s hair against his ear, the weight of his chin as he rested it against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Why can’t you be here?” Sherlock murmured quietly, the room darkening and blurring until all he could feel was the pressure of John’s arms around him. 

“I will be, eventually. I swear. But seriously, you’ve got to get out of here, darling idiot. You’re getting so cold, can’t you feel how you’re shaking?” 

“Transport.”

“Yeah, well. I like your transport as it is, preferably with a full MOT and correct number of appendages. Come on, Sherlock. Time to get back there and start surviving, eh?”


	8. Chapter 8

It was nearly completely dark by the time Sherlock had retraced his path to the burnt-out vehicle, gritting his teeth against the frigid cold. He was rapidly losing feeling in his hands and his feet felt strangely wooden, ankles stiff and aching as they plunged through the snow. Finding his way back to the wreckage at the base of the slope was easy; a spire of dark smoke was still drifting upwards although the flames were long gone. It was a struggle to force himself to return to the spot, and Sherlock had to stop and rest several times; chafing his skin and readjusting the hideously scratchy pine boughs he had stuffed under his meagre clothing. The snow had stopped for a while, but the leaden skies promised more on the way. His head throbbed and ached, and nausea billowed through his stomach so persistently that he doubled over and retched several times; his eyes streaming. It was so tempting just to sit down; to retreat into his mind and escape the icy darkening valley. 

The fire had consumed the land rover almost entirely, a mere shell of blackened blistered paint and twisted metal. The front half of the upturned vehicle had collapsed under the weight of the engine, leaving little potential shelter. The smell of burnt plastic and scorched upholstery mingled with another sickening, familiar stench. Sherlock ignored the dark heap that lay on the ground next to the drivers side. The seatbelt that had held Schneider in place must have kept his body there long enough to be consumed by the flames, before he dropped into the mess of melted snow, rocks and mud below. 

A quick examination of the ground revealed a wing mirror, the glass cracked and smeared with ash but still in one piece. Trenet’s body lay where Sherlock had left it, heaved to one side next to the left rear door. The bleach blonde head was face-down in the snow, surrounded by a grim halo of darkening frozen blood. His body had largely escaped the flames, although his feet (and regrettably his boots) were long gone. Sherlock ignored the sick swoop in his stomach as he took in the blackened remains and rejected the notion of trying to salvage anything that the man from Marseilles had been wearing on his bottom half. 

[Sherlock, come on. You’re not squeamish; you never have been. You’re the most pragmatic individual I have ever known. He’s dead, he’s got no use for anything here. You’re freezing to death. Come on, he’s got a decent jacket. It’s messy but it’s going to be a damn sight warmer than those poncy pajamas and my jumper.]

[You bought me these pajamas!]

[Yes, love. They’re also made out of organic silk and bamboo, in a shade the nice lady in the shop assured me was called Drifting Mist. They are doing absolutely nothing to keep you warm. Mr. Trenet over there however is wearing what looks like a cosy goretex waterproof number, lined with fleece. Get it off him. Right _now,_ Sherlock.]

John’s voice was achingly familiar, ringing with exasperation and the kind of tone that Sherlock knew meant that his blogger was getting very close to the end of his patience. He had used it during that last, horrible conversation in their bedroom back at Hilderbogie House. Just the memory of it had him scrambling towards Trenet’s corpse, anything to distract himself from the memory of John’s pale, shocked face and the echoes of their raised voices. 

Trenet seemed heavier than he had been when he was draped across Sherlock’s trapped body earlier. Rigor mortis had begun to set in, and it was a struggle to wrestle the blood-spattered jacket off his shoulders. It took Sherlock a few minutes to wriggle the sleeves down his stiff arms and over his hands which were still balled into fists. Once it was free, he dragged the outside along the ground, wiping the worst of the ash and blood from the waterproof fabric before pulling it on with shaking fingers. It held no residual body heat; Trenet had been dead for hours and initially it made very little difference to Sherlock’s temperature. 

[It’ll take a few minutes; once you’re moving you’ll warm up. Find something for your feet next, there’s got to be something. Keep looking, quickly before it’s properly dark.]

Sherlock glowered at the wreckage and forced himself to scout the ground again, clumsily picking up a cracked and blackened wing mirror before tucking it into the pocket of his jacket. Further investigation revealed a partially melted scrap of plastic that had warped into a shallow bowl shape, which he also pocketed. Little else among the burnt wreckage presented itself as a possibility for salvage. 

[Now the other side. Come on.]

[There’s nothing here! I’ve got to go and find something to shelter under, don’t I?]

[Sherlock.]

The nausea seemed to intensify as he forced himself to skirt the rear of the land rover, his heart reverberating with a sick, heavy thud. Despite the fact that he had lost sensation in his bare feet, he could still somehow feel the warm, slick swipe of Narek Harman’s tongue against the arch of his foot. The cool metal slide of the blade between his toes. The bite of rope against his wrists, the weight of a large hand between his shoulderblades-

[No. _No._ ]

It took Sherlock a shamefully long time to force himself to look directly at the spot where he had last seen the injured youth, his gaze skittering around the melted and refrozen snow and scorched paint. He experienced a strange, horrible lurch when he saw that the space was empty; the rear door pushed wide and hanging by one protesting hinge. His core temperature seemed to drop by several degrees, the taste of bile intensifying in his mouth. He couldn’t hear John’s voice any more; stunned into silence while a bizarre white clamour filled his mind.

His knees felt oddly watery, and he clutched at the sharp, burnt wheel arch as he sagged. 

[No. NO. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have survived; he was too-]

It took several seconds before he could move his gaze from his blackened, numb hands. The landscape was steadily darkening, gleaming white slopes turning to shades of grey. 

The stunted pines cast long slashes of shadow everywhere he looked. Scattered erratic boulders concealed twisted crouching shapes, glints of dying light reflecting from shards of icy granite.

It took Sherlock far too long to identify the crumpled shape some twenty feet away, half buried in snow and sunk into the shade of a stunted fallen tree. As he forced his shaking legs to carry him haltingly in that direction, he spotted the dark traces and streaks of blood in the snow; a macabre track that led towards the remains of Narek Harman. Sherlock stood perhaps five feet away from the crumpled figure for a long while, taking in the partially burnt clothing and smoke-streaked face of Narek Harman. His eyes were wide and glassy. Their colour gave Sherlock another jolt of nausea, although they were clearly empty of any kind of awareness. Narek must have made one last, herculean effort in order to heave himself from the burning land rover; his already battered body seeping blood as he dragged himself across the snow. The hunting knife was still clasped in his red smeared fingers, the wicked serrated blade stabbing through the frozen crust of snow. 

[Take it. Take it, Sherlock. Those boots too. Come on, now. Fast as you can, then you can get away from here.]

The sound of John’s voice in his head again made Sherlock almost weak with relief, his heart heaving. It helped him enormously as he reached gingerly for the loosely knotted laces on the heavy suede desert boots, tugging them free from the stiff feet.

[Socks too, love. Take them.]

[No. I can’t. His skin- no. No.]

[Take them, Sherlock. His jacket too.] 

John’s voice was insistent. Sherlock glared at the thick blue woollen socks on Nareks’ feet; revulsion rolling through him at the thought of taking anything that had been in direct contact with the man’s body. Even if he could wash and dry them, Harman’s cells would still linger among the fibres. The scent of his sweat and skin. 

[Yes, but you can wash yourself afterwards, once I’ve found you and got you home. _Please,_ Sherlock.]

He reached out gingerly, pinching the knitted fabric between forefinger and thumb before slowly dragging the socks off the pale dead feet. The sight of them made him gag convulsively. 

[Feet. For gods sake, they’re just _feet._ ]

[His feet were bare, against the dark grey shag pile carpet. They left shallow footprints in the pile. Smell of dust, vodka, stale sweat. Barrel of a glock against my left ear.] 

[Dead. They’re both dead, now. DEAD.]

He shoved the heavy woollen socks in the pocket of his purloined jacket, and shoved his pallid stiff feet into the boots; yanking the laces tight before pulling the knife from the unresisting fingers. He dropped that in the opposite pocket and stared around himself; taking in the greying skies and growing shadows. The glints of light reflecting against the granite boulders had ebbed away almost entirely, leaving a drab monochrome landscape. The temperature was dropping even more swiftly, and he swallowed hard as he took in the distance back up the slope; comparing it with the next high pass in the mountains. Stars appeared intermittently amidst the heavy clouds. 

A final, lone glint of light persisted near the frozen waterfall on the furthest edge of the valley and it took Sherlock a long time to be sure that it was not merely the reflection of starlight or a last glimmer of jagged granite catching the dregs of daylight. It glimmered feebly, flickering for a few moments before growing slightly in brightness. 

He didn’t quite dare to begin to hope as his feet began to propel him slowly and unsteadily towards the cold, greenish pinprick of light.

***

Regents Park had a particular smell in May, when rain began to fall after a few weeks of dryness. The air felt strangely soft, a faint breeze filtering through the new leaves as they walked slowly down the length of a long poplar lined avenue. They were mostly sheltered from the cool, persistent shower by the outstretched limbs of the trees overhead, which made Sherlock approximately eighty percent certain that John wouldn’t insist on their returning to Baker Street. This was compounded by the fact that this was the first time in eight days Sherlock had left the flat. John had Views about Sherlock getting semi-regular access to the tedious minutiae such as fresh air, food other than chocolate hob-nobs and conversations with people other than those inside his head. 

“But I talk to you inside my head all the time! I frequently wish you’d keep it down in there!” Sherlock had protested as John threw his coat at him and prodded him towards the stairs. 

“Doesn’t count. Come on, you’re going to get rickets if you stay in here much longer.” John insisted, shrugging on his own jacket. “Half an hours walk. You’ll like it.”

“Shan’t.” Sherlock muttered, but it was only a token protest and John ignored it as he had expected. To be perfectly honest, he had been expecting John to insist on their leaving 221b for the last thirty six hours; but a last minute shift change at the surgery meant that Sherlock had spent most of the day before on his own inspecting the back of the sofa in minute detail. His last case (barely a three) had been resolved after less than half a days work and a trip to the Wellcome library and it had left him in a dull, sluggish and discontented mood. He recognised this as the beginning of what Mummy had always called ‘one of Sherlock’s little glooms’ but couldn’t quite bring himself to prepare himself against it. It had all been achingly unsatisfying, hardly a challenge at all and it _rankled_. He itched for a seven or more, it had been _months_ since a really juicy one. 

Four months, really. If he was being honest. Four months since the blood had sung in his veins and his heart thrummed and he had felt sick and heady and on a knife edge of panic and so, so _alive_. 

John had been sandwiched between layers of semtex, wrapped in a cheap parka and while that knowledge had sickened and horrified Sherlock the look in his eyes had made something dark and elemental thrill inside his very bones. John’s jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were clear and sharp; hands utterly, absolutely steady. 

That feeling of connection, of wordless communication. The sense of shared purpose, no matter the cost. Sherlock had felt the world go still, every avenue of possibility clear and delineated and it was like music in his blood. 

He almost missed Moriarty. Four months and barely a whisper. 

He and John had stumbled home, drunk and reeling with adrenaline; wide eyed and exhausted and sleepless. They kept catching each others eyes and dissolving into faintly hysterical giggles. They had sat up till dawn, John making tea that neither of them drank and Sherlock playing Sarasate until the neighbours swore and thumped on the wall.

He knew that missing Moriarty was more than a Bit Not Good. He knew it would be a very bad idea indeed to mention this to John, who had eventually slept and then woke up mild mannered and yawning and complained about the unpaid gas bill. The loss of the John of the night before made Sherlock ache, just a bit.

“Petrichor.” John murmured, his cool damp hands wrapped round a paper cup of over-priced tea. They were leaning with their backs against the trunk of a massive horse chestnut tree, side by side. Sherlock stared up through the branches, layer upon layer of spreading hand-shaped leaves waving gently down at them. 

“Mm?”

“That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? Petrichor. Smell of rain on dry earth. I love it. The word, too. Definitely in my top five smells.”

Sherlock glanced down at him, taking in John’s calm upturned face. His eyes were closed, face and hair dappled with raindrops. He hadn’t bothered shaving that morning and the stubble made him look slightly rumpled and rough. Sherlock had a strange, momentary desire to press the ball of his thumb against the corner of his jaw, just to feel the rasp of it. 

“What are the other ones?” he asked, sliding his hands deep into the pockets of his unbuttoned coat. 

“Oh, um. Well, I don’t know. It’s not an actual list I keep written down.” John’s eyes flickered open and gave him a half smile before sipping gingerly at his tea and wincing at the temperature of it. He licked a drop of it from his lower lip and hummed thoughtfully. “Grass, just after it’s been mowed. That’s good.”

“What else?” Sherlock asked immediately. 

“Ummm… petrol. Bit of an odd one, I ‘spose. My mum always insisted on the windows being rolled up tight when we were putting petrol in the car when I was a kid; but I used to sneak one of the back ones down a bit. I’d inhale it as deep as I could, and give myself a bit of a headache.” John grinned, and shook his head at some memory. “Harry once suggested I just give glue or markers a go instead but I just liked the whiff of some old fashioned leaded petrol.”

“Benzene.” Sherlock informed him, after a moment’s musing. “It’s a rather interesting hydrocarbon – humans are able to identify even one in a million parts. It was actually used in cosmetics and aftershave until the late nineteenth century.”

“If only we lived in Victorian times, eh?”

“I could probably make you something similar.” Sherlock offered. “Benzene isn’t difficult to procure.”

John gave him the fond, bemused look that always did something a bit strange to Sherlock’s throat and chest. “Thanks, but I reckon it’s probably one of those sense memory things. Tied up to going on holidays and car trips and things. Don’t think it’s be quite the same.”

“Very well.”

“Thanks, though. It was a nice thought.” John added swiftly, and for some reason offered Sherlock some of his tea despite the fact that Sherlock hadn’t wanted any when they called in at the park café. Sherlock hesitated, before taking a small sip. It was still blisteringly hot and contained no sugar but he supposed it was all right, considering.

“What are the other three?”

“Err… lets see. The seaside, I think. Salty air, seawater on sand.”

Sherlock sighed. “Predictable.”

“Shut up, you asked. Dark roasted coffee, when you open a fresh bag of it for the first time. It’s never the same, even a few hours later.”

“And?”

“Oh, let’s see…” John shrugged and gazed around the verdant, rolling lawns and rain-dampened avenues of emerald green trees. “I don’t know. That shampoo you use, I like the smell of that. Sort of minty-camphory-something or other. What’s that supposed to be?”

“Doesn’t count. It’s an amalgam of different compounds.” Sherlock informed him loftily, after a moment.

“Of course it counts!” John protested, his cheeks now faintly pink. “I’m not that fussed about all of them individually, but together they’re… they’re good. Anyway, you can’t make rules about what my favourite smells are.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, and took a lungful of the chill air, redolent of rainwater and fresh leaves. 

“Well how about you, then?” John countered. “I bet you’ve got your top five nicely organised on a little laminated card in your wallet, don’t you?”

“Why on earth would I need them on a card? Fresh grated ginger. Walls vanilla ice-cream, but only the stuff they made between 1984 and 1997. Pirastro Oliv rosin. Gun oil. Bitter almonds. ” 

“Huh.” John mused, huddling a little deeper into his jacket. “Bitter- oh. Oh, I see. Cyanide, right? Not clostridium botulinum?”

“The first poisoning case I successfully solved,” Sherlock confirmed, then sighed quietly. “The latter has no scent, incidentally.”

They lapsed into silence. Sherlock gloomily studied his thumbnail. He felt the weight of John’s gaze on the side of his face and the heavy clouds of the afternoon sky seemed to visibly darken. 

“I can’t believe it. You’re actually bloody pining for him, aren’t you? Well don’t worry Sherlock, I’m sure he’ll ring before long.” John said coldly, after a long pause. 

“Look,” Sherlock said with what he considered to be an admirable attempt at patience. “I don’t expect you to understand this. You can’t. Your mind doesn’t-“

“Oh, really. I can’t understand? You really believe that?” John snapped. “I’m not a total idiot, Sherlock. I know what it’s like to try to replace one craving, one addiction for another. You’re craving him, aren’t you? You get bored and the walls start closing in. And for you it’s either a choice for reaching for a needle or to go looking for a psychopath who’ll play exciting little mind-games with you and lead you down the rabbit-hole again. But you’re more than a fucking addict, Sherlock! You’re able to have more than those things in your life! You’ve got to let more things matter to you, you’re going to end up dead or mad if you don’t and- and it’ll break my fucking heart to see that happen!”

John’s words seemed to fly out of his mouth before he had consciously thought of them, and his pale face seemed to sag as soon as he uttered them. He stared up at Sherlock, his eyes tight and mired in pained lines. He took a breath, seeming on the verge of saying something else; and then stopped, before glaring down into his paper cup of cooling tea.

Sherlock studied him, his heart thudding and uneven. This was new; John Watson didn’t say this kind of thing to him. Nobody said this sort of thing to him. He wasn’t quite sure what sort of thing one should say in response. He wasn’t sure that he liked hearing it, although some small part of him was flickering at the rare affirmation suggested by John’s words. He knew that John quite liked him, wanted to keep living with him. The fact that they had continued to cohabit mostly (well, approximately sixty-two percent of the time, anyway) peacefully and companionably for the best part of a year now must mean something like that.

He knew that John liked the fact that Sherlock prevented him from sliding into a life that was too ordinary. John _liked_ the times when he slipped his service revolver into his pocket and raced down the stairs on Sherlock’s coat-tails; or when they undertook obscure research into the small hours of the night or pelted across roofs and down murky alleys after suspects. It made his strangely changeable eyes glitter with purpose and intent. John Watson was good in a way that Sherlock could only dimly fathom; but he wasn’t like other people. Sherlock didn’t care so much about _nice_ or _ethical_. But the goodness in John Watson was a separate thing; something that glinted off his skin and ran through his hair and as far as Sherlock could tell, coated the very bones of the man. The goodness in his face was evident at the moment, and it was almost painful to behold.

“Can’t you find something else that’ll help? Christ, I know about depression Sherlock! I know when things go quiet and there aren’t many cases it gets hard for you. I know what it’s like to feel it creeping up on you. But you’ve got other stuff in your life; don’t you realise how completely, monumentally fucked up it is for you to rely on that sadistic bastard for purpose? He’s not the only thing that’ll help keep it back!”

“Ah, I see. Another lecture on exercise, diet and sleep is on the cards; is it? Taking up _hobbies?_ ” Sherlock bit out, his fingers delving into his pockets once more for cigarettes that _still weren’t there_.

“Or music, or research, or anything that isn’t Moriarty!” John insisted, his jaw tightening. “Jesus, Sherlock. What would you do if he died? What if he just never comes back? Just stare at the walls for the rest of your life?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Sherlock muttered, watching the cricketers running across the fields for cover in a distant veranda. The rain began to fall more heavily.

[He’s coming back. He has to. He can’t just leave like that. He couldn’t. Could he?]

“You can’t let him be the most important thing in your life, Sherlock.” John said quietly, leaning back against the tree and wrapping his hands more securely round his cup. He seemed unwilling to look up into Sherlock’s impatient, expectant face. “Just… please. Don’t.”

“Why does it matter so much to you?” Sherlock asked before he could help himself. It was a question that had been rolling around in his mind like a dropped penny; not just this afternoon but for months now. Persistent. Why on earth should it? He wasn’t like John; John was good. It was important that John was all right. It was strangely, fiercely important that John didn’t return to that quiet, sad, diminished state of being he had been in when they had first met. The mere thought of it made Sherlock itchy and sick.

But Sherlock wasn’t like that to John. It didn’t go both ways. John had other friends and other colleagues; he had dates and occasional girlfriends (not at the moment thank goodness, far too distracting from The Work). Sherlock had John, a sum total of one friend and colleague and that was perfectly enough for him – a couple of years ago it could well have been altogether too much.

[Why would it matter to him? Why? I’m clearly not irreplaceable. Why would he say these things? He’s not a liar, he’s terrible at it. Why?]

[He’s staring at me with that look on his face and I’ve never been able to ascertain what it means…]

“Oh my god, you really just asked that.” John murmured, and pushed himself away from the trunk of the tree. He made a great show of pitching the almost empty cup into a nearby rubbish bin and dusted off the back of his damp black jacket. He began to walk away down the rain darkened path, tugging his collar up against the heavy drops from the branches overhead. Sherlock studied him curiously, taking in the line of his shoulders and the pace of his steps. This wasn’t one of the walks that John took when he ‘needed some air’, or more accurately ‘to be somewhere that Sherlock is not’. 

John glanced over his shoulder, the look on his unshaven, rain-glazed face tired and perhaps a little bemused. “Come on then, Spock.”

“You know I don’t know what that means.” Sherlock lied, lengthening his stride and lessening the distance between them. John hummed and shrugged, and carefully stepped around a small child on a scooter coming in the opposite direction.

They walked on in silence, as the rain lessened and the light grew brighter and greener; filtering through the chestnut leaves.


	9. Chapter 9

The light continued to gleam feebly through the darkness; occasionally obscured as Sherlock skirted boulders and pushed his way through thickets of snow-laden pines but never wavering. He could barely bring himself to wonder about its source by now. Despite his slightly improved situation, his increase in body heat and the protection of his stolen boots, tiredness was consuming him. The light blurred, sliding in and out of focus; it was now barely more than a vague target to aim towards. The pale gleam of it brought nebulous images to mind – a long heavy rope of dendritic opals worn by his maternal grandmother, looped around her corded neck and worried between his own small pink hands. New leaves on the chestnut trees in the park. John stirring a pot of leek and potato soup in the kitchen of 221b last Spring. Sherlock hadn’t eaten it, something that he now recalled with a pang. 

The nausea had finally begun to drain away, leaving his stomach hollow. It was still nothing compared to the cloudy ache in his head, although that too was lessening as his numb feet propelled him towards the light near the frozen waterfall. 

Stars had begun to emerge, providing a small amount of illumination; their dim light outlining the towering crags and rocks in every direction. As Sherlock plodded forward, his collar turned up high and his hands tucked under his arms, he drifted in and out of memories and suppositions, recalling old conversations and arguments; cases he hadn’t thought about in years and people whose names he had never bothered to learn. 

He thought about meeting Martha Hudson for the first time, her nervous, determined face as she took a seat opposite him in a dingy café. The heavy yellow gold ring on her thin little hand and the expertly applied makeup beneath her left eye. She had carried a pale green leather handbag that matched her sandals, stuffed full of financial records and her own notes about the activities of Henry Hudson. She had closed the catch of her empty bag with a snap and pushed them all towards Sherlock, before reaching for her teacup with a shaking hand. 

He had only been clean for six months at this point. He itched and the days were so bloody long and he was yet to sufficiently ingratiate himself with NSY to get involved with the really juicy cases. When he had received her email three days previously, Sherlock had been a matter of hours away from texting one of his old contacts down at the Vauxhall arches. Instead he had gritted his teeth and booked a one way ticket to Miami, with little more than an idea of removing himself from immediate temptation.

He had never quite understood why Martha Hudson had decided that he needed taking care of. Out of the two of them, she was the one who clearly required protection. And he had never analysed too closely why, after he had neatly arranged for Henry Hudson's’ long term incarceration and eventual demise at the hands of the so-called American criminal justice system, he had made an appointment to see her again. He couldn’t stop watching her bird-boned little hands, steady as a rock as she lifted her tea to her lips. 

“Is there… anything else you need assistance with?” 

“Me?” Martha’s eyes had widened as she set down her cup. “Goodness, no! I thought that you just wanted to give me my bill in person. I’ve been waiting for it for weeks!”

“What?” Sherlock had blinked, and then remembered that _yes_ , he did in fact charge for his services. And Martha Hudson was going to be very comfortably well off, once her assets were unfrozen. “Oh, I’ll email it to you later.”

“Mind you do,” she said firmly. “Now, dear. I’m going to be heading home to London in the next month or two. I’ve had enough of this place; the heat is atrocious and although I’ve actually never seen an alligator here I’ve always been a little uneasy about them. I’m ready for a bit of rain and people who know how to queue properly for the bus. Not to mention a steady supply of decent tea. Honestly,” she looked down at her cup with a grimace. “Lipton Yellow Label, I ask you! But anyhow, I’ve got an idea of letting out a flat or two in this house I have. Nothing fancy, you understand; but quite cosy. Or at least it will be, once I’ve done it up a bit.”

Sherlock hummed, non-committal. “Make sure you vet any lodgers carefully. The Camden Strangler was perfectly friendly to his landlady; right up until he-“

 _”Anyway,_ ” Mrs. Hudson said loudly, drowning out his words and making him frown. “I expect you’d like a nice central spot in Westminster, wouldn’t you?”

“I have a flat. On Montague Street.” 

Or at least he did when he left. He wasn’t sure if he’d paid the rent this month, and he made a point of not opening official looking envelopes with little windows in them. Even the ones with large red letters stamped across them. They were so terribly boring.

“Montague Street,” Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in London, but as I recall there was always a terrible smell of drains around there.”

Sherlock briefly wondered if her visits to his street had ever coincided with his extensive investigation into sulphuric compounds. He’d had to leave the windows open day and night for a week. He’d lost his sixth flatmate at the same time; an initially timid Korean student who had thrown a plate at his head before storming out. 

“I don’t do cooking,” Mrs. Hudson was saying firmly. “I’m going to look up my old friends and I’m going to be busy with my own life. No cleaning, either. I’m going to be a landlady, not a housekeeper. I suppose I might drop up a scone or two, now and again. If you’re good.”

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what the correct thing to say was. He had very limited experience of seeing clients again after their cases were closed. Most of them gave him thanks, whatever payment he had deemed appropriate, and then disappeared from his life with clear signs of relief. Of course, he had a few repeat customers. But none of them had ever suggested an ongoing acquaintance, outside the bounds of his professional services. He knew she didn’t actually _need_ the rent money; so what on earth was she expecting from him?

“While I am… _flattered_ by your interest-“ he began, haltingly.

“And if you get yourself a nice young lady or gentleman friend, they would be very welcome to come and stay of course-“ she continued blithely. “But I’d get the final say on whether they can move in. I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked down at his fingers, which were worrying the red gingham tablecloth restlessly. “I… I play the violin. Quite loudly, sometimes.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Mrs. Hudson beamed delightedly. “Do you know _Greensleeves_? It’s my favourite!”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Sherlock watched her face fall slightly, and with a faint shock heard himself say: “But I expect it won’t take long to learn.” 

***

The light was getting stronger, and, as Sherlock trudged the last hundred metres or so, he watched it sway by a few degrees. Ice-laden pine boughs slapped his frigid cheeks and tangled in his hair; the pain a distant thing as he pushed them away with shaking hands, before tripping painfully on a snow-buried log. He lay face down for a long minute, feeling the cold seeping further into his frame; clammy pajama trousers soaking through with _yet more bloody snow._ He was wrapped in a dull fury, mingled with fatigue; he was just so utterly _fed up_ with this. 

Inhaling snow was rather difficult, and after a moment he forced himself to turn his face to one side; taking a long shallow breath before opening his eyes. The damn light was still there, blinking through the gently waving branches of a pine thicket.

[Come on, Sherlock. You might as well find out what it is. Don’t you want to know?]

John’s voice was full of false, bright cheer and just imagining it made his teeth hurt.

“Oh, shut up!” he sighed, and after a moment heaved himself to his knees. It took a moment longer to balance himself on his feet, clutching at a nearby boulder as his legs shook convulsively.

One step. Another. And another. Another slight trip over a buried tree root, but he caught himself clumsily before he reached the ground. Another step. 

It took a frankly ridiculous amount of time to cross a geographically insignificant distance. Sherlock fixed his eyes on the light as he trudged through the snow; the icy breeze filling his ears. 

The light was feeble, but as he got closer the faint beam was enough for him to make out a small, ramshackle pile of stones and a sheet of corrugated iron that was pitched steeply enough for the snow to slide off it. He blinked blearily at this man-made oddity for a long moment, his breath swirling sluggishly through the air around him. The light was none other than a small, solar-powered lantern hanging from a rusting bracket attached to the half-buried stones. Stones which were, on closer inspection, actually a tumbledown wall. With a small wooden door, half-hanging off its hinges. 

A bothy. One that clearly hadn’t been visited or used by hikers any time recently, by the state of it. But it was still a structure, still shelter; a sign of civilisation so welcome that it made his eyes feel a little damp.

Stumbling forward, Sherlock pushed at the splintering wooden door until it opened inwards. With a deafening shriek of rusting hinges, it gave way and let him enter the tiny dark space within. The darkness was almost absolute, although a small amount of starlight seeped through the single window. He retrieved the solar lantern from outside and brought it into the bothy, its dull glimmer illuminating a few sticks of worn or broken furniture, a pile of tattered paperback books in one corner, and a rough stone fireplace in the middle of the back wall, the hearth full of ancient damp ashes. 

Mechanically, he pushed the door shut, willing it to stay on its remaining single hinge before going to crouch at the empty fireplace. A pile of dusty, mostly dry logs lay stacked against the wall nearby. As he reached for them he sent scores of woodlice scuttling across the packed earth floor, but he ignored them in favour of scouring the place for matches, a lighter, even a pair of sodding _flints_. He was about to start attempting to kindle a fire using one of the legs from a broken chair and a few scraps of paper when he suddenly recalled the cigarette Trenet had grudgingly given him during the drive, which already seemed a lifetime ago. Trenet, who had been wearing this jacket and had returned the cigarettes to the internal breast pocket…

Discovering the squashed, battered packet which contained a few bent cigarettes almost made him gasp with gratitude; especially when he found the book of matches tucked in next to it. The small book was more than half-empty, with only four flimsy matches left inside. The urge to light a cigarette first was nearly overwhelming, but he forced himself to carefully begin stacking logs in the grate; tucking scraps of paper for kindling amidst the dusty wood. The motions were automatic; this was one of the few household chores he actually enjoyed doing at home.

[John always seems to like coming home to find a fire lit. Nonsensical, but there it is.]

The first match flared and went out, his shaking hand holding it too close to one of the logs. He cursed, and took a deep breath. Three left.

Two.

[Christ!]

He gritted his teeth and dragged the match along the rough strip on the matchbook, steadying his hand by grasping his wrist firmly. He slowly touched the match to the nearest twist of paper, then gently to another, and another. He held his breath as he watched it flicker and catch, smoke beginning to swirl and stream up the draughty stone chimney. He blew on the flames after a long moment, encouraging them to catch and leap beneath the logs. Sherlock didn’t dare look away until he was quite sure the wood was properly beginning to catch fire, and the bright flames continued to dance in his vision as he looked around the newly illuminated bothy.

It was quite clear that hikers had stayed here previously, but certainly not for at least two years. The tattered paperback that Sherlock had found in a corner and used for kindling had been bought in a London airport and only half-read before being discarded. He could date it from the ISBN; an earlier edition from the one John had been reading the previous year. 

The insignificant deduction made him pause. It had happened almost unconsciously, the familiar tumbling of cogs in his brain; thoughts connecting and sliding into place, triggering an immediate, logical conclusion. The relief of it was palpable. His fogged mind was clearing more and more. He felt a ridiculous rush of embarrassment at his witless fear at the scene of the crash and his subsequent bumbling in the snow. 

[Well at least all of the witnesses are conveniently deceased.]

The fire slowly began to devour the logs, a slow wave of heat creeping into the room and permeating his chilled, soaking clothes. The shaking began to ease a little now, and he started to regain sensation in his feet, registering the ache of raw wet skin against unfamiliar boots. He gingerly unpicked the knots in the laces, easing them off his cut and grazed flesh. His feet were dead white, although the blood was rushing to flush the blistered toes and heels as they warmed. His right ankle was by far the worst injury he was sporting; the deep cut still sluggishly oozing blood from when he had wrenched it free of the wreckage. 

[You can still move it freely, though. It might scar; you’ll need antibiotics and a tetanus booster, love. But it’s superficial.]

[Yes, thank you. What a relief all those years of medical school weren’t wasted on you, John.]

[You arse. How on earth do you manage to keep being a sarky git even in this situation?]

[Because my _situation,_ as you put it; is hardly the pressing issue. What did she do to you, John? What did she say to you? I know you’d try and come after me; but what if you physically can’t? Patrick’s dead; he got in the way. What if you got in the way, too?]

[Don’t. Not dead, Sherlock. I’m not dead, you’d know if I were dead.]

[Ridiculous, sentimental nonsense. _You_ believed I was dead for years!]

In his mind, John’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched ominously. [You’d know. You would. So shut it. I’m coming for you.]

Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed, John dissolving away as he took a closer look at his surroundings as the firelight filled it. A lopsided table stood propped against one wall, next to a couple of rickety stools. A food safe hung on the wall, the metal door hanging open to reveal it’s total lack of contents. A shelf with a couple of rusting saucepans; a chipped enamel mug. An out of date Lonely Planet guide to Scotland. A low wooden sleeping platform in the corner to the left of the fireplace, two mouldering sacks of straw piled at one end. No running water or sink. A spade stood propped against the wall next to the door, giving Sherlock a clear indication of plumbing arrangements. 

Not that that was much of an issue right now. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the ill-fated cup of tea John had brought him that morning. He had sipped a couple of mouthfuls of melted snow, scooped into the plastic he had carried away from the crash site; but his hands had been shaking so much he had spilt most of the precious water. 

It was so tempting just to allow himself to keel over onto the floor in front of the fire, to succumb to sleep and let darkness take his aches and thoughts away. Eventually though, he heaved himself up onto his unsteady legs and filled the dusty, rusting pans from the shelf with snow from outside the door. He dropped them with a clang next to the fire, before forcing himself to unzip his jacket. 

He stripped off his awful, bloodsoaked pajamas and sweater and kicked away the wretched, scratching pine boughs he had stuffed beneath them. He stood naked in front of the fire, turning slowly as the heat touched his sore, clammy skin. Whichever side was furthest from the flames immediately erupted into gooseflesh so intense it was almost painful; but it was worth it for the sensation of dryness and fleeting warmth. He hung his wet things up to dry over a broken chair and pulled the jacket back on; the inside at least had stayed dry and the fleece lining felt almost transcendently soft against his torso. His arse and legs were unfortunately still freezing, but once he sat on one of the sacks of straw he was at least marginally more comfortable.

John was quiet in his head; probably because even he couldn’t find anything obvious to point out in this godforsaken hut. 

[John?]

[Mm? What?]

[I… I shouldn’t have thrown the cup. I… sorry.]

[Not exactly important right now, love.] John’s voice told him drily, with a tinge of fondness.

Sherlock glared into the flames, aching with tiredness. [I… I’ve been trying, you see. A bit. I know that it’s- I know that it’s important to you.]

[What is?]

[That I say things, as well as feel them. And I am, you know. Sorry. I’m sorry about lots of things, really.]

[Are you sorry about those horrible taxidermy guinea-pigs in the living room?]

[What? No! They were an important part of an investigation into-]

[Yeah, alright. What sort of things, then?]

Sherlock huddled a little deeper into his jacket, trying to marshal his unruly thoughts. There were just so many to choose from, now that his brain had begun to approach normal levels of function.

[Come on, Sherlock. I’m in your bloody head. If you can’t say it to me in here, when can you?]

[I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. Should have done. About… well. I know you’ve always wanted that. And I don’t; I never have. I’d be so terrible at it. I-]

[We’re so shit at talking about the stuff that really matters, aren’t we?] John’s voice was thoughtful; a little wry.

[You’re not. At least you _try,_ John. I just assume you know what I would have said. And the words freeze in my throat. And I know that if I told you that, if I told you that I never wanted… well. I knew that at first it wouldn’t matter to you. But eventually, you would think about it long enough and it would matter. You would eventually meet someone who could give you that. And you would leave. I always knew you’d leave, in the end.] 

[Mm. That’s why you’ve never told me you love me, isn’t it? Something to keep me hanging on for?]

[I…. Sorry. I’m not especially proud of that.]

[Bit not good, yeah.]

[Is saying it out loud really that important? If you already know? Seems a bit superfluous.]

[You tell me, genius.] 

John went silent and Sherlock shuffled a fraction closer to the fire. It seemed rather ridiculous to be dwelling so much on matters of sentiment when he was marooned in a freezing, tumbledown hut in the middle of nowhere; with a rather high chance of never being found by a search team that he could only hope was on the way. He had water (but no tea, which was becoming increasingly intolerable). No food, limited amounts of firewood. A freezing posterior. He supposed he might as well do something with his time. The mind palace at least contained his memories of warmth.

***

John’s face was earnest and creased with sleep; his hair dishevelled against the fine linen of the pillowcase they shared. He had clearly been awake for some time, unlike Sherlock who had blinked awake mere seconds previously to find his flatmate staring at him with an odd, rapt expression. He had heard from John more than once that the practice of observing unaware subjects while they were sleeping was ethically dubious (“creepy, Sherlock. It’s five in the morning, it’s the third time this week, _stop it!_ ”. 

But perhaps these rules were relaxed somewhat when participants were sharing sleeping quarters. As Sherlock took stock of his limbs, he found that they were in even closer proximity to John than they had been last night – he had clearly turned in his sleep, seeking more warmth during the cold night. He waited curiously for John to disentangle himself; for John to make yet another slightly awkward joke about _people talking_. 

And yet… Sherlock remembered how they had fallen asleep the night before. The solid, reassuring pressure of John leaning against his shoulder, meeting his eye in the age-spotted bathroom mirror as they brushed their teeth. His own tiredness, feeling raw, bruised, embarrassed [god so _relieved_ ] after the conversation with Violet that evening; how unutterably welcome it had been to sink into the mattress with John at his side. He had barely been aware of speaking aloud as he burrowed into the massive pillows.

“I don’t mind it, you know. I thought I would. But it’s…” his jaw cracking with a massive, silent yawn. “It’s good. I know why you like it.” 

The infinitesimal pause, the sound of John taking breath and then the sudden motion of his compact body setting the bedsprings shaking and Sherlock’s nerves alight. John’s arm sliding under Sherlock’s pillow and the pressure of his palm stroking the length of Sherlock’s side. Sherlock’s heart gave a strange, heavy throb as he reached out for John’s wrist, pulling his arm closer around him. [This must be allowed, mustn’t it? He reached out first. Let it be allowed, _please_. Even if it’s just tonight. Feel as if I’ve been flayed. Don’t think I could bear it if-]

John’s forehead against the back of his neck, his breath warm and humid. [Must be tickling his face but he’s not moving away; his body is slotting into mine and absurd thought but it _fits_ there. His deep inhalation; chest moving against my back. Warm, so warm. Tipping his head back sleepily; can feel the point of his chin sliding against C2 vertebra. _Don’t_ let him feel the resultant shudder.]

[His mouth; lips slightly parted and the merest soft damp pressure against C1. Accidental?] 

[How did that bloody sound come out of my mouth without my approval or volition? I’ve never sounded like that in my life; I would remember!]

Sherlock inhaled deeply, screwing his eyes shut. His heart was painful, dark and heavy and he hated it. He was almost sure he hated it. It was all just… so much. 

John’s voice was sleep-slurred, bracketed by yawns. His arms tightened a little around Sherlock; his fingers squeezing Sherlock’s own against his chest. Quiet movement. Thunderous.

“Goodnight.” 

And the next morning, blinking into awareness with his head on John Watson’s shoulder and John Watson’s arms around him. The shared warmth of their bodies; the bones and softness, comfort and aches brought on by their unfamiliar closeness. John Watson _wasn’t moving away._

He had forced the words out, which somehow seemed easier to say in the dim half-light of the early morning. They were nothing like what he wanted to say; but he said what he thought would cause the least amount of damage if John said no. 

“I know that you mind what people think, sometimes. But I like this. And I know that you miss company in bed. If you want to keep doing this I won’t tell anyone.” 

Sherlock had listened to John’s stumbling, hesitant words with a strange dull ache. John didn’t know what he was suggesting or promising, he didn’t know what he was getting himself into with each sentence. He didn’t _know_ what a stupid, dangerous thing he was proposing. And Sherlock didn’t argue or interrupt him, he just lay there and listened as John blushed and occasionally stammered. 

“But Sherlock, I like it that it’s you.” His eyes shut tightly, and he thankfully couldn’t see whatever Sherlock’s face was doing in response. John’s jaw was tense, as if he needed to summon some kind of bravery for this. “I like… touching you. I like waking up with you. It’s not that I miss Mary, or that I’m wanting anyone else. It’s you.”

John’s eyes were still shut as Sherlock swallowed hard several times, trying his best to stay still. The back of his neck was prickling with sweat, his mind was frenetic as he made sure he had heard John’s words correctly; that he hadn’t misunderstood him yet again. He needed to record those words; he needed to be able to re-examine the way John had arranged those halting sentences. John’s hands were so warm and heavy on Sherlock’s body, he could almost feel them sinking into his frame. Sherlock cleared his throat eventually, knowing that some kind of response was necessary. He needed clarification; he needed to know _exactly_ what it was that John was asking for.

[I’ll give him anything. Anything he asks for, as long as we don’t go back to ‘personal space’ or ‘keeping our distance’ from this point.]

Pressing his mouth to John’s forehead was something that happened, appallingly, without conscious thought. John’s face had been tight, his mouth set in a firm line and it had taken Sherlock far too long to realise that John was _scared_ to open his eyes, to read Sherlock’s expression. 

[He thinks I’d say no to him. He thinks I’m the one who’s more likely to step away. How on earth can he think such a thing?]

Being rewarded by John’s embrace and the slide of his burning palms on Sherlock’s bare skin was both heady and terrifying. This wasn’t the beginning of sex, or at least it didn’t seem to be. But the sheer intimacy of it made Sherlock’s stomach clench painfully; he experienced a strange, compelling sick lurch at the thought. He wondered if John could feel the scars under his fingertips, spread across the small of his back. 

“-what you’re expecting… while continuing to share a bed with me.” Sherlock’s words were wooden, but he’d had to get them out. They had been burning him; he _had_ to know. 

The following conversation had been awkward, slightly humiliating and painful. Sherlock let the memory blur and speed up, focussing only on the sensation of John’s body against his; their shared body heat under heavy covers. 

[I never wanted you to feel sorry for me. I never wanted you to know, if I could help it. And yet the words came out of me. I said more than I ever wanted to. Then, and later. You pitied me and I hated it but I loved you. Love you. Always did. Don’t know when it started but it was a long time before then. Nebulous concept. There was no real beginning to it; even as I look back at you opening that door in Barts the shadow of it was there. A recognition of sorts. Ludicrous, but there it is.]

[I was cruel to you in so many ways. I wasn’t even aware of it most of the time. I read it in your face in the aftermath and it burnt us both. And we usually just ignored it and moved on. Did I scar you? Think I wanted to, sometimes. The night of your wedding I was so furious, so blindly incandescent with rage – not just at you but yes, a _lot_ at you – at Mary, at James bloody Sholto, at myself most of all… I’d have drawn blood given half the chance I think. I was losing you, I saw it in your face and the way your hand dropped away from the back of my neck. The way your smile slid away from me and onto her. I rested my face against a damp grimy wall in the Vauxhall arches and truthfully what I did next was the only thing that would make it all stop; the rage, the panic, the endless bloody regret and yawning sensation of loss. And I know that beginning to use again was an act of cruelty towards you. It wasn’t enough to stop me. It was a punishment for you, of sorts. I wanted you to feel responsible. I wanted you to see what would happen, when you left me. Never mind that I’d been the one who’d left you behind, before. See? Cruel.]

[And sorry. So endlessly sorry. Even if I hardly ever manage to say it.]


	10. Chapter 10

As the jeep picked up speed on the road leading north from Hilderbogie, John stared ahead blankly. Through the hastily defrosted windscreen the straight white road stretched ahead, banked on either side by ice-laden fences and stunted pines. Anthea was in the drivers seat to his right, her gloved hands gripping the wheel firmly. She was silent as she drove, her gaze intent. She was wearing an oversized waxed coat and heavy scarf that Violet had dug out for her, her elegant hands swamped by a pair of moth-eaten woollen gloves. He could see Griz in the rear view mirror, slumped in the back seat. She too was silent, pensively chewing on a fingertip as she stared out the window. Occasionally she directed Anthea to take a particular turning when the road branched, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts. 

John didn’t particularly like the silence, although he wasn’t sure if he could stand idle conversation either. He mainly wanted to drown out the noise in his own mind. He wanted to ease the relentless ache of tension in his shoulders and jaw. His hands were restless in his lap; he ached to do something useful. His feet pressed at the floor incessantly, pressing an imaginary accelerator.

“We’re only doing fifty.” He informed Anthea, tersely. 

She didn’t catch his gaze. When she replied, her tone was impersonal. “Which is already faster than is advisable, Doctor Watson. There’s packed snow and ice under us; even with the chains we can’t risk it.”

He forced himself to bite back the contradictory words in his mouth. He knew she was right; knew that getting into an accident on a remote road such as this would be of no help whatsoever. He still itched to be behind the wheel himself, although it was clear Anthea was a far more experienced driver in these conditions.

“She’s right.” Griz observed flatly from behind him. “And those men who took Mr. Holmes can’t have been going any faster, if they didn’t know the roads well and there were four of them in their car. They’ll have slowed down a lot once they got beyond those hills up ahead. There’s only tracks from there, right through the Cairngorms.”

She gestured between John and Anthea towards the windscreen, towards the jagged peaks ahead. John supposed they were beautiful, huge rolling granite peaks thickly coated with snow and dotted with massive boulders. Heavy grey clouds hung overhead, sliding into the shadowy valleys and crevices of the range. He suddenly remembered hearing of a tragedy there, years before – hikers frozen to death, ill-equipped to deal with a freak snow storm. He scrubbed his hands against his face restlessly. _Not him. He’s in a car; there’s no reason he’ll be out in the open. Worst case scenario, they’ll be stuck in a snowdrift._

_Not the worst case scenario. Not by far._

The dark pounding of his thoughts was thankfully disrupted by Griz curiously leaning forward again. “You’ve driven up here before then?” she asked Anthea, curiosity tinging her gruff voice. 

“Not here. I have undergone defensive driving training in a variety of climates and terrains, though.” Anthea said vaguely, in a tone that John knew was calculated to discourage further questioning. After all, she had used it on him on more than one occasion. 

Griz, who suddenly seemed uncharacteristically talkative, didn’t seem to notice. “Like where? You and that other man are from London, aren’t you? Why’d you need to learn how to drive in the snow?”

“Holidays in Switzerland,” Anthea replied glibly, neatly avoiding a fallen tree that covered half the road ahead. In the rear view mirror John saw the landrover behind them do the same. “Mr. Mycroft Holmes sometimes overdoes it on the apres-ski gluhwein and needs me to drive him back to his chalet.”

This had to be an outrageous lie, and it was delivered with such utter aplomb that John had to gape at her. After a moment the corner of her mouth twitched minutely, but Anthea remained otherwise impassive. 

Griz gave her a disbelieving look.

“It’s true. I accompanied Mr. Holmes and Mr. Singh to Verbier in November, where my driving skills proved extremely useful.”

“They went on holiday together?” John asked, despite himself. The idea of Mycroft going on holiday anywhere was too bizarre for words. He couldn’t imagine what Mycroft relaxing would look like. But then, he’d never expected Mycroft to meet anyone like Patrick either.

“A long weekend.” Anthea corrected him, turning down yet another narrow lane that Griz silently pointed towards. 

“Mr. Singh?” Griz asked. “You mean that man who was just taken off to hospital?”

“Quite.” Anthea confirmed, any trace of amusement rapidly dissolving from her face. John studied her, more of a means of distracting himself than anything else. He remembered Patrick’s words by the fireside, angry and upset: _I keep turning around and instead of Mycroft, I see Anthea carrying yet another vaguely worded apology._

He suddenly realised that anyone who became involved with Mycroft must also undoubtedly become involved with Anthea. That it was inevitable that Patrick would have spent time with her, would perhaps have been some kind of friend to her. And he remembered her odd, unconscious gesture towards Mycroft in the kitchen when he had walked in after leaving Patrick. Anthea was a professional cipher, no doubt chosen for her demure and expressionless composure. The fact that she had cracked, even for a split second, at the sight of Patrick’s blood smeared across Mycroft’s skin and collar spoke volumes. It was possibly the first time he had ever seen her give an unconscious reaction to anything. 

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Griz inquired. “He seemed nice. Murdy says he helped get her out of the water the other night.”

Anthea didn’t respond, clearly concentrating hard on the deeper snow they were rolling into. John watched the road narrow to a track; a single clear set of indents cutting through the crisp white surface ahead. 

“He’s getting the best possible care. The doctors who came to take care of him are the ones who look after the Queen, apparently.” John said, carefully. 

“Mm. Yes, Major Braithwaite was not entirely pleased at being roused from his bed on New Years morning. The celebrations at Balmoral went on rather late.” Anthea said. “After Mr. Holmes and I returned there last night I managed to win rather a lot of money from him and the Duke of Edinburgh at canasta. I doubt it improved his mood.”

“You were staying with the Queen?!” Griz said, looking faintly impressed and thankfully distracted from this line of questioning. “I hear she’s a wicked shot.”

“Her Majesty is certainly adept with a hunting rifle.” Anthea confirmed. “The Duke has often appeared slightly concerned about her aptitude, for some reason. I saw her bag twenty pheasants in less than ten minutes last season.”

“Not bad.” Griz said, approvingly. She glanced ahead. “You’ll want to go slow, now. Look at those tracks ahead, and the damage to that tree on the left. A car has definitely come this way, and it was in a hurry. If anyone local was stupid enough to come this way, they would definitely have gone slower. It must have been the men with Mr. Holmes.”

Anthea nodded, inching along over a frozen brook. John stared at the battered pine tree, its’ bark freshly broken. A few feet further along, he thought he could spy some scratches and streaks of dark paint along a nearby boulder, the snow clearly disturbed around it. The evidence of the vehicle having come this way was palpable; John let a small sigh of relief escape his lungs. A part of him had feared that Griz and Murdy might have been wrong, that they might have calculated the wrong route through the maze of the Cairngorms. The idea that they were actually getting closer to Sherlock made his heartrate pick up, with nerves and excitement. What would they have to do to get him back? 

Would Sherlock have managed to get through the ordeal so far unscathed?

He glanced across at Anthea again. He knew that she was well armed underneath her heavy coat; that she had at least three knives and a revolver at her side. Violet had calmly taken possession of Mary’s gun, sliding it into the waistband of her tweed slacks with an oddly practiced movement. He had no idea about Mycroft, but the set look in his face made it all too clear that his patience was at an end. Griz had slung a couple of rifles into the back of the jeep, after assuring them that both she and Murdy were more than capable of handling one. This had made John nauseas with worry; he still felt utterly conflicted about bringing them, no matter the urgency. 

“Hang on a moment,” Griz said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. She jerked a thumb behind them, towards the rest of the group in Patrick’s car. John glanced into the wing mirror, and let out a hiss of frustration. Patrick’s gleaming land rover had ground to a halt some thirty feet back, the rear wheels sunk deep into a snowdrift. 

Anthea hissed softly in irritation and brought their car to an abrupt halt. “One moment, please.”

John pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and swore softly, all the tension flooding back into his frame at once. They didn’t have time for this, not now. Surely they’d be better off continuing ahead; Mycroft and Violet were less use to him than Anthea in a fight, he felt sure of that. 

But Anthea was swiftly wading through the snow back towards the land rover, coming to meet Mycroft who slipped quickly from behind the wheel. John reluctantly unfastened his seat belt and leapt out of the passenger seat, trailing her with Griz in his wake. 

“That doesn’t look good,” Griz observed flatly, taking in the deep drift that enveloped a large portion of the wheels. They hadn’t had snow chains for the vehicle that carried Mycroft, Violet and Murdy; but the tyres were newer and broader than those on Mr. Brodies scarred old jeep.

Murdy frowned, looking around them rapidly. “Can we tow it out maybe? Or lever it with a branch? One of those saplings over there might do…”

“Nothing to tow it with,” Violet reported, slamming the boot shut loudly. “No rope in there. Anything in your one?”

A brief search of the jeep revealed nothing, beyond a few old pieces of baling twine. 

“We don’t have time!” John said loudly, the words finally bursting out of him. “We just don’t. Please, _please_ can we just get going again?!”

Mycroft ignored him entirely and stalked to the rear of the vehicle, staring hard at the wheels for a long moment. “Anthea, may we have your opinion?”

Anthea didn’t speak for a long moment, her eyes darting back and forth between the churned up snow and the tyres. She took several seconds to inspect the back of the land rover, pacing back and forth to observe the tyres on either side. Eventually, when John was on the verge of shouting, she replied: “It will take a minimum of twenty minutes to extricate it from the snow, sir. Probably longer. I suggest we leave it here and continue into the hills. We can’t risk losing much more time. The TA will be approaching from the north-west; but we can’t rely entirely on them. They may be following a slightly different route.”

Mycroft nodded. “Very well then.” he turned to the Antonelli girls, both of whom looked up at him owlishly. “You two will remain here until we return.”

“No!” Murdy interjected at once. “No, you need all the help you can get!”

Griz turned and looked at her curiously, but didn’t say anything. 

Murdy was wide eyed with indignation, her ruffled dark hair blowing across her sharp features. “You could get lost! You don’t know the mountains like we do, you could end up going entirely the wrong way without us-“

“No, we won’t.” Violet said firmly, and reached into the car to grab the topographical study that Murdy had been cradling in her lap. “He’s right, Beastie. You two should stay here, and we’ll come back and fetch you as soon as we can. We don’t know what we’re going to be facing in terms of people ahead; we all know the route you and Griz suggested and we’ve got the maps to help us. Your dad would never forgive us if we let anything happen to either of you.”

“That’s a bloody low blow!” Murdy snapped, looking almost tearful with rage. 

“But it’s true,” Violet said, very gently. “Look, I know it’s completely infuriating when people tell you that you’ll understand when you’re older. But I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you two. There’s enough danger in the world for girls like you to face without throwing something like this into the mix. There’s enough petrol to keep the engine and the heating running for a few hours at least. There’s food and blankets in the back. Worst case scenario possible, you’ve got a long cold walk back to the nearest village. But I swear it won’t come to that. ”

Griz elbowed her sister, who was still looking mutinous. “They’re not going to take us.” she said bluntly. “And in terms of nagivation it’s basically a case of heading on through the gap there and the ravine beyond. Once they get down into the valley it’s a straight run through the mountains towards Invergordon.”

Murdy looked like she was very much inclined to argue, but Mycroft was already leading the way back to Mr. Brodie’s jeep; beckoning impatiently for John and the others to follow him. John couldn’t think of anything to say beyond “I’m sorry, Murdy. We’re going to find him and we’ll be back as soon as we can, I swear.”

Griz and Murdy stood in the snow, watching them as the jeep pulled away. They grew smaller in the rear view mirror, disappearing rapidly into the low hanging clouds and lengthening shadows of the hills. John sat once more beside Anthea as they rolled onwards, Mycroft and Violet uneasily sharing the worn back seat behind them. 

The track was narrowing swiftly, curving into a sheer sided gap between two towering peaks. The shadows pooling in the depths of the ravine ahead were greyish purple, gusts of wind pushing flurries of snow through the entrance. 

John swallowed hard; his stomach uneasy. Violet wordlessly reached out from behind him and squeezed his shoulder. “Won’t be long now. They can’t be much further ahead.”

He nodded, grateful for her touch. Staring ahead, he murmured: “He- we argued, right beforehand. I shouldn’t have left him like that. If I hadn’t-“

He could see Violet shaking her head in the wing mirror almost as soon as she heard his low, halting words. “No. No, that’s not true. There were three of them; they were armed and they had that bloody woman on their side too. They’d have taken him anyway. If you’d been with him they might well have shot you, as well as poor Patrick.”

John’s eyes came to rest on Mycroft in the rear view mirror. His face was stony, but he inhaled deeply at Patrick’s name. 

“She shouldn’t have been able to fool me so easily,” John said, hating the almost pleading tone in his voice. He sounded weak. He couldn’t be weak, not now. 

“I think it is clear from past experience that she is more than capable of misleading you.” Mycroft said tonelessly. He did not meet John’s eyes, and his words stung. The inference was clear. 

_And he’s right. I should have known; I knew she was a liar. I should have immediately questioned every word she said. I should have ignored it all. I should never even have opened the door._

“I think it’s clear that she’s a devious bitch who would use any means necessary to get her way.” Violet said, sharply. “You weren’t expecting to see her, and that knocked you off your guard. If you had a row with Sherlock on top of that, I very much doubt you were automatically going to be on the lookout for a troupe of bloody kidnappers. It’s not your fault, you idiot. And thinking that it is doesn’t help anyone.”

John nodded uneasily, fighting the impulse to argue. Mycroft didn’t say anything further, gazing sharp-eyed out the window as the shadows closed in around them. Night was approaching swiftly. 

Sherlock’s white face kept drifting through his mind, hurt and furious. The sound of shattering china. The tremors in his fingers as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself, huddled in the window seat. 

_I should have known something was wrong. I should have known._

_And what he said. That I’m desperate to be a father, that I’d leave him for Mary if it meant I could have that. How long has that been going around in his mad head? Where did that come from? We barely spoke about it, ever. How could he think that I’d leave him?_

The words that Sherlock threw at him, viciously, like a fist. _”And even though it’s so obvious it’s hardly worth stating, I can’t give you that. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”_

Sherlock’s odd manner when John had talked to Murdy and the Antonelli girls. When he’d been concerned for them. Even for Patrick. Had Sherlock been looking for clues, all this time? Evidence to prove his theory? Had he honestly been believing that what he and John had wasn’t going to last?

John remembered his panic in the woods after hearing Mary’s words, and felt sick.

There was so much they hadn’t talked about. He’d been so sure that the two of them would be together forever. No questions asked. They’d stay in Baker Street, they’d continue having ludicrous adventures indefinitely. Maybe, many years into the future, they’d think about getting some help with the legwork. Sherlock might move into research more. John could finally get around to writing a book. It didn’t matter what they did, just so long as they were together. The thought of them having a family had never occurred to him. It wasn’t something he’d ever been conscious of wanting. It was ridiculous; how on earth would children fit into their life? They were in serious danger at least once a week. You couldn’t bring kids into a situation like that. They’d end up being targets themselves. There was an extremely high chance that they could end up being orphans.

But he’d never even thought to make this point clear with Sherlock. It just hadn’t occurred to him. And yet the night he’d come back to Baker street, after things had ended with Mary… He’d sat across from Sherlock and he’d raged and wept at the loss of the daughter he’d thought he was going to have. He hadn’t been right afterwards, not for a long time. He’d pushed everything into tight little boxes in his mind, muttering to himself not to think about it. Being silently furious at clients, watching them as they were reunited with their families. Having panic attacks on his bedroom floor, unable to cope with his loss. Relying on Sherlock to pull him back from the edge. 

And yet they never bloody talked about it. Not once. 

They talked about sex. They had talked, admittedly briefly but meaningfully, about what had happened to Sherlock while he had been away. About Armenia. 

But what had John talked to Sherlock about, really? He just assumed that Sherlock knew the important things; that he saw through him as always. That he understood how and why John felt. It had never occurred to him that Sherlock might weigh up the evidence and get it wrong. Or that he had incomplete data to work with.

John glanced at his wristwatch, and winced. 

***

He was jolted out of his twisting thoughts by the jeep lurching to a halt. Anthea hit the brakes forcefully, breath hissing quietly between her teeth. They had reached the end of the narrow ravine, coming to a stop at the top of a very sharp slope that led into a wide deep valley. Nightfall was almost complete, drifting streaks of cloud and fog revealing a vast dark sky full of pinprick stars.

There were no lights below them. None, as far as the eye could see. 

The starlight was reflecting off the wide expanse of snow, shadowy grey surfaces punctuated by thickets of pines and massive jagged boulders. John gripped the edge of his seat and leaning forward, willing himself to see some sign of movement, a glint of light, _anything_ that would give them some evidence of Sherlock’s journey this way. 

Anthea made an irritated sound and opened her door, her feet dropping into the snow below with a soft crunch. He followed her hastily, barely feeling the slap of frigid air on his skin as he joined her at the edge of the slope. She peered down thoughtfully, hands deep in her pockets. 

“It’s too steep, isn’t it?” John said flatly. 

Anthea thoughtfully pushed a handful of hair behind one ear and hummed. “I’m afraid so. It would be risky enough during daylight; but at night it would be…imprudent.”

He heard the sound of slamming doors and the crunch of Violet and Mycroft’s feet coming through the snow behind. Violet was pulling a thick fur hat over her ears as she made her way too them, taking in the situation at a glance. “Bugger.”

“There was a brief daylight thaw which has frozen again,” Anthea said. “The slope is covered with a film of ice.”

“But they certainly came this way,” Mycroft observed, pointing out a few broken branches perhaps ten feet down the slope. “And swiftly, too.”

“We’ll just have to go on by foot then.” John said, at once. “They probably had to stop somewhere once night fell. They can’t have been able to follow the tracks after dark; they’re barely even deer trails on the maps.”

Anthea didn’t look entirely convinced by this plan, but turned back towards the car at once. “One moment, please.”

She returned moments later with what looked like a large green camera case slung over her shoulder, her fingers busily undoing the clasps. “I took the liberty of commandeering this from one of the helicopters earlier. I do hope they don’t mind.”

“What the hell is that?” Violet asked curiously, as Anthea pulled out a bulky device that appeared to be somewhere between a small telescope and a digital camera.

“A thermal camera.” John said, a faint flicker of hope in his chest. “What range does it have?”

“Mm. This model should be able to detect human sized objects at about 1400 feet,” Anthea answered, fiddling with the dials on the side. “In theory, anyway. If Sherlock’s captors decided to stop anywhere nearby we should be able to see them.”

She stepped closer to the head of the slope and held up the camera, slowly sweeping it from left to right. The display remained stubbornly dark as John watched over his shoulder. A sudden flash of glowing red made him impulsively reach for the camera but Anthea shook her head, dismissive. “Deer, I’m afraid. There’s another.”

Sure enough, a blurred outline revealed a small doe picking her way through a rocky gully dozens of feet below. John clenched his fists and stared at the display, willing it to pick up something else. It remained a dull grey-green for several long seconds more. He felt, rather than saw, Violet’s shoulders dropping in disappointment to his left. 

Anthea suddenly stilled, staring at the camera. A dull, flickering mass appeared on the screen. It wasn’t the glowing red of the deer; it was irregular and paler in colour. It was also completely stationary, with not a ripple of movement. 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know. It’s not human though, I’m afraid.”

“Might be a building. They could have taken shelter for the night.”

“It’s a possibility.” Anthea said, but the doubt was clear in her voice.

Mycroft had been silent for such a long time that it was almost startling to hear him speak. John expected him to be sceptical, to question the likelihood of such a possibility. But Mycroft took a long look at the display and frowned. “Very well then. Let’s get going.”

After a brief gathering of supplies from the back of the jeep, the group began their descent into the valley. John was surprised at the downright nimble way Mycroft made his way down the steep slope, navigating piles of rocks and patches of ice with ease. He had never seen the man move with any kind of speed before today; remembered Sherlock sneering about how Mycroft detested legwork. 

Violet moved a little more slowly, but managed to keep up; occasionally grasping Anthea’s hand as she toiled over particularly rough spots. The snow was churned up in places; their torchlight caught streaks of mud and damaged trees on either side of the rough track. Scored and scratched boulders made John stop and stare. Clearly the vehicle ahead of them had not had an easy descent into the valley either. 

He slipped several times on hidden patches of ice, striking his right elbow so hard on the ground so hard it briefly made him see stars. After several agonising seconds he was able to move it again. He barely stopped, refusing to let anything else impede their progress. He kept reminding himself that every step he took was another one closer to Sherlock; to whatever might be awaiting them at the base of the slope. 

It took nearly half an hour to reach the base of the slope. Anthea raised an arm to call a halt, and checked the thermal read. They crowded round the camera in the darkness, all torches extinguished. It was too dangerous to risk any more light. The strange reading was still there, perhaps a few shades lighter. John’s heart sank when he realised there were definitely no human shapes around it. Sherlock couldn’t be there. 

_Yes, he could,_ a grim voice in the back of his mind told him. _Sherlock could be there, lying in the snow. It could be his residual body heat, sinking into the snow._

“Come on. It’s not human, so we might as well go and see.” he said, plunging onwards. He couldn’t bear staying still; couldn’t stand the idea of admitting defeat or more inertia. 

“John, slow down! Put on your bloody torch again at least!” Violet shouted after him. He didn’t slow, but did as she said, flipping the switch on his torch as he jogged down the end of the slope. 

What awaited him there left him doubled over in horror. The burnt out shell of a large black land rover lay upturned in the snow, like a monstrous dead beetle. The breeze changed direction, carrying the smell of burnt rubber, fuel and the ghastly unmistakeable stench of burnt flesh. He couldn’t bring himself to shine his torch inside. He had caught sight of one dark shape lying next to it, half-buried in the snow. 

He was distantly aware of his own gloved hands pressed to his wet face. The harsh laboured sounds of his own wheezing breath. His heart was hammering; irregular. 

_You don’t know yet. You don’t know if he’s in there. You don’t KNOW!_

He could feel a pair of hands on his shoulders. He didn’t know or care whose they were. Someone was speaking to him urgently. More than one voice now. The sound was blurry; it wasn’t breaking through the horror that was freezing his mind. His eyes were tight shut. He couldn’t risk seeing anything more. 

Pressure on his face, prising his hands away from his mouth. 

“Breathe, John. Take one good breath for me now please…” It was Mycroft’s voice that eventually broke through, to his distant surprise. John struggled, and took a shallow gasping breath. Tried to focus and failed dismally. 

“He’s not here, John! Listen, _please._ ” Mycroft’s voice was tense, and oddly breathless. John managed to open his eyes, blankly taking in his sharp profile in the torchlight. “These are the men who took my brother. They are dead. But Sherlock is not here, John. I swear to you that he isn’t here!”

When the words finally sunk in properly, John felt his knees buckle. He sank to the ground, tasting bile in his mouth. He was past relief; he felt sick and utterly shaken. His hands were trembling and he stared at them as if they belonged to someone else entirely. 

Mycroft sat down rather unsteadily on a rock next to him. His leather gloved hand came to rest heavily on John’s shoulder. Nearby, Violet was straightening up from a crouching position on the ground. She pulled a crumpled handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her mouth, before casting it away into the snow. Anthea was stalking the perimeter of the crash site. She was studying the ground carefully; the beam of light cast by her torch darting over piles of disturbed snow and scorched rocks. 

John forced himself to look at the remains of the figure lying by the vehicle. The face was blackened with smoke but largely undamaged, hair gleaming an unnatural brassy blonde beneath a thin layer of snow. He only took a cursory look at the lower half of the body. There wasn’t much left of it. 

He felt hands on his own, and looked down. Violet was pressing a chipped enamel mug into his hands, steam swirling from the surface of the liquid. “Come on. Drink it. Here’s one for you too, Mycroft.” 

It was horribly sweet tea, too strong and without enough milk. John took a sip, and it burned his frozen lips. But the faint pain of it grounded him. He still felt chilled and hollow, but his thoughts were clearing rapidly. Violet sat down close to him and leant into his side. 

“Wish I’d brought something rather stronger. But we did leave in a hell of a rush.” she remarked, pushing the thermos back into her bag and rummaging around for something else in it. “I know the tea’s vile but we all need some sugar. Have a Digestive while you’re at it.”

Mycroft stared at the packet of biscuits she waved towards him as if he’d never seen such a thing before. John couldn’t understand the weak giggle that suddenly bubbled out of him. Shock and relief he supposed.

“Those are the first biscuits you’ve offered me in twenty years, Violet. I confess I am rather disappointed.” Mycroft said drily, taking two. He cast a sidelong glance at John, who wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “I suppose they’ll have to do.”

“Once we’re back at the house I suppose I could make a gingersnap or two,” Violet said grudgingly. “Anthea, come and get some tea while it’s still hot!”

Anthea stalked over, and emptied a mug of tea in two long gulps. Taking a handful of biscuits she matter-of-factly informed them: “Three bodies. Signs that clothing and boots have been removed, and possibly a firearm.”

“Oh thank god,” John said numbly. “Jesus.”

“Quite.” Mycroft agreed, heavily.

“I ‘spose it was the residual heat in the depths of the engine that registered on the camera?” Violet asked, staring at the outline of the wreckage. 

Anthea nodded, her mouth too full of biscuits to answer. 

Mycroft got to his feet and began to examine the burnt out shell with his torch, stooping to peer inside. There was a horribly charred shape in the remains of the drivers seat, but he only spared it a passing, incurious glance. “He can’t have gotten too far on foot in the time since the crash.”

Sherlock was on foot, in the freezing dark, in the middle of nowhere. John wrapped his hands around his mug and stared into the depths, willing himself to be cheered by the fact that at least he escaped the crash. That the bastards who had taken him were dead, that there was no fight to be faced. It almost felt anticlimactic; he had been tense with nerves at the thought of the oncoming struggle. At facing Sherlock’s captors. At getting revenge for what they’d done to Sherlock, for what their people had done to him in the past. 

Christ, what must have been going through Sherlock’s mind as he was hauled away? Drugged and helpless and faced with the prospect of being shipped back to Armenia? 

Restless, John got to his feet. He stared around into the darkness, which flickered with yet more snowfall. He directed his torchlight onto the snow, trying to spy any sign of the direction Sherlock might have gone. The snow had melted and frozen in a wide circle around the wreckage, no doubt when the petrol tank had exploded. Sherlock must have been on his way by then. Disorientated? Injured? 

Sherlock was a survivor by nature, so why hadn’t he come back? Once the fire had died down, surely he would have realised that the shell of the vehicle was a reasonable place to shelter? That anyone looking for him would eventually find it, see the signs of a crash and know to look for him there? 

He froze suddenly, as he caught sight of a blurry smear in the snow a few feet away. The flakes were continuing to fall, creating another layer of perfect white in all directions. But the darkness wasn’t yet obscured; it was only gradually fading out of sight. John leapt towards it, digging into the snow with his gloved hands. There was a shallow impression in the snow, outlined by a reddish halo. A footprint, stained with blood. Another, a few feet away. 

The snow was beginning to fall more thickly, and he stumbled faster through the snow; finding three more slight hollows in the snow. They weren’t in a straight line. Sherlock must have been staggering away. John stared at the harsh red streaking the white, and swallowed hard. His gaze crept ahead, into the silent darkness of the valley. 

Sherlock’s tracks were slowly fading away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a monster chapter - thank you all for sticking with me through this! I really appreciate all of your comments and kudos; I'm only sorry I pretty much never get around to replying to you all! I read and treasure every comment left, they are hugely encouraging for me. 
> 
> I think there are probably about three chapters left in this (Ha! Famous last words - The Edinburgh Problem was only meant to be a standalone 10k work). I'll hopefully be updating again within the next few weeks. 
> 
> In case anyone is interested, I'm also currently working on a Mystrade and Johnlock fic called A Sense of Home, which is considerably lighter and fluffier and definitely shorter than the Scotland series :)

The name flew out of his mouth before he consciously thought of it. “SHERLOCK!”

John’s voice rebounded off the boulders, the steep cliff faces around him. “SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

The sight of the blood stained footprints had shaken him to his core. His yells echoed through the darkness, faintly repeating through the mountain passes. The only reply was the whisper of the breeze, streaming through pine branches and gullies. He suddenly felt colder than ever, standing staring into the darkness. 

He stared at the ground, trying desperately to spot more of the tracks that Sherlock had left in his wake. They had swiftly been covered by the falling snow, and the ground stretched pristine white in every direction. 

“John, what is it?” Violet panted, appearing at his side. “What did you see?”

He pointed at the rapidly disappearing tracks; the trails of blood in the snow. Her hand tightened on his arm as she took in the scene. 

“It’s not a lot of blood,” she said, after a moment. Her voice was nearly level, determinedly calm. “It would have been a miracle if he’d gotten out of that car totally unharmed. He was well enough to keep moving, John. That’s a good sign.”

John didn’t reply. He stared out into the shadowy depths of the valley and straightened up, checking the straps on his backpack. “We’ve got to keep looking.”

“But where?!” Violet asked, despairingly. “How the hell can we track him in the dark like this?”

“He can’t have gotten that far.” John said, turning to look for Mycroft and Anthea. “And I’m going alone if I have to.”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” Violet said sharply. “I just mean that we’ve got to have a system. If you just wander out into the dark you’ll end up going in circles or getting lost yourself.”

“She’s right.” Anthea agreed, as she joined them. “Miss Vernet, if I may have the maps?”

Violet hastily dug in her backpack, pulling out the heavy topographical study. John ached to plunge ahead, to just get going; to just find Sherlock and bring him home. He knew that planning was essential, that it improved their chances of finding him. But the sense of wasted time grated on him. Images of Sherlock slowly freezing in a snowdrift kept flooding his mind. Sherlock bleeding, staining the white ground around him. 

“Right.” Violet’s business-like tone finally cut through his thoughts. He looked up to see her carefully pulling several pages from the book of maps, the sound of tearing paper startlingly loud. Even Mycroft looked faintly horrified at the sight, but Violet merely shrugged grimly and held out a few sheets of paper to him. “Needs must. It weighs a ton and I’ll mend it later. John, you and Mycroft are going to head west – there’s a river and waterfall in that direction. He’ll need water by now so there’s a good chance he’ll have headed that way. Anthea and I are going to head towards the pass that leads to Invergordon. It’s also possible he’ll have tried to strike ahead and get to the nearest village on the other side of the valley.”

John nodded, watching Mycroft scanning the map in the light from his torch before passing it to him. Splitting up into two groups was clearly the best plan for covering ground, but it still made him vaguely uneasy.

“We will reconvene back here in three hours if we haven’t found anything.” Mycroft said, glancing at his watch. “Agreed?”

“Sir.” Anthea confirmed tersely, folding her own pages of the map carefully into the pocket of her coat. She and Mycroft shared a long look, before she turned away to face Violet. “Miss Vernet? Shall we?”

Violet took hold of John’s arm and leaned in, pressing her cold cheek against his. “Between the four of us, we’ll find him. We’re bound to.”

He could only nod, wishing he could muster the same level of certainty. Violet kissed him quickly and turned away, half running to catch up with Anthea who was already striding ahead. John watched them disappear into the darkness uneasily, then nodded at Mycroft. “Right, let’s go.”

In order to cover more ground they stayed several feet apart as they journeyed west. John was only able to see the beam of Mycroft’s torch as it bobbed and weaved, echoing his movement through the snow. They had to move carefully, at a torturously slow pace as they navigated round thickets of pines and jagged rocks. The cold was painfully sharp, sinking into his bones and numbing John’s exposed face and ears. He thought of Sherlock plunging across this icy landscape, wearing nothing but thin pajamas and a stolen jacket. Bleeding into the snow. 

Christ, those pajamas. John had spent days trying to find a gift for Sherlock. It hadn’t been for any particular occasion; he just wanted to give him something after that awful, awkward situation and their conversation on the Millennium bridge. He’d wanted to tell Sherlock that everything was alright. He’d wanted to wrap him up in something warm, to hold him and cosset him in a way that Sherlock definitely wouldn’t ever have permitted. He wanted Sherlock to feel comfortable, safe, unguarded around him. To let him know that his well-covered fragility was fine. That it was all fine.

He’d had no idea what on earth he could buy Sherlock that could communicate that embarrassing range of emotions. He’d wanted to buy something that would remove the need to put it into words. And he’d never managed it, of course. But he’d ended up on the threshold of an extremely select little shop on the edge of Covent Garden purely by chance. He’d wandered in, taking in the racks of delicately coloured silk and cashmere, fine cotton lawn in pale intricate patterns. On the spur of the moment he’d decided he would just buy something _nice_. Given how much time Sherlock spent lounging around in his dressing gowns he might as well have some comfortable pajamas to wear under them. 

So he’d spent the best part of a weeks salary on a single pair of classic button-down pajamas. The gentle pearl grey fabric was so soft he’d kept idly petting it as the sale was rung up. On the tube home he’d had an odd stutter, worried that Sherlock would be bewildered at the gesture. Dismissive, even. Or that the pajamas wouldn’t be up to his usual standards of apparel and Sherlock would be awkward about accepting a gift of something he didn’t like. 

John remembered Sherlock’s face when he’d curiously levered the lid off the matte black box. Of course he’d divined what was inside even before he’d accepted it from John’s hands. John had tried to be off-hand, casual ( _saw these and thought you might like them don’t worry if you don’t I’ve still got the receipt-_ ). Sherlock’s long fingers stroking the fabric, the surprise in his strange deep-set eyes. 

And John hadn’t had to come up with a reason or excuse after all, because Sherlock had disappeared into the bedroom with the box at once and emerged within a minute wearing them. Long limbs swaddled in soft grey, his fingers doing up the last of the mother of pearl buttons. He’d been looking down at his chest as he walked, inspecting himself like a child in a new school uniform. A small pleased smile on his face that made John’s heart ache for some reason. Later on, Sherlock had curled up in bed next to John, sharing his pillow. He’d murmured _Thank you. They’re good, I like them._ Almost shyly. And it had made John resolve to give him more gifts, all the gifts in the world, if it meant that Sherlock would look at him like that – edges softened, genuinely pleased and fond. 

He hadn’t even managed to buy him a Christmas present in the end. They’d gotten caught up with the Brighton kidnapping case and it had all gone out the window. Sherlock had given him the Walther, which was now weighing down his pocket. Sherlock’s carefully indifferent expression when he’d handed over the box. His transparent pleasure when he was sure John liked it. Sherlock warm and tousled, laughing in his arms and telling him it was loaded.

John stumbled on, his thoughts in disarray as he fought his way on. His legs were already aching with the effort of ploughing through the snow, his shoulder protesting at the intense cold. The moon was finally beginning to rise, blurred and weak behind the heavy clouds as it inched above the mountains. It only provided a faint watery light, and the intermittent snowfall meant that visibility was extremely poor. Both John and Mycroft called out Sherlock’s name every few seconds, but no reply ever came. 

“John!” Mycroft called several minutes later, his voice hoarse and strained. He was several feet away, his torch trained on a rocky outcrop. 

John froze, his heart hammering. 

“Is it him?! Have you found him?” he yelled, flinging himself down to the rough pile of boulders where Mycroft stood. “Sherlock!”

Mycroft was shaking his head when John was close enough to see him clearly. “No, he’s not here. Look, John-“

He pointed at the narrow ledge overhung with rocks, a small dark space barely large enough for a man to stand and shelter in. Some twigs and branches broken from a nearby pine littered the tiny patch of sheltered ground. What made John’s heart sink even more was the dark smear of blood on the granite, close to the ground. It was larger than the traces around the footprints back near the crash site, dark and glistening on the rock face. 

John stared at the stain for several long moments, fighting exhaustion and nausea. Sherlock’s blood, staining dark grey stone. He shut his eyes tightly, shaking away the visions of the pavement at Barts. Sherlock’s pallid skin, his crumpled body. The rain slowly diluting the blood haloed around his head, scarlet marbled streams of it running in every direction. 

“It’s not a mortal amount.” Mycroft said, as if from a long distance away. “Nothing like it.”

John inhaled deeply, the frigid air burning his lungs. He nodded sharply, and turned around to stare into the depths of the snowfall. It was coming down more thickly now, each flake landing with a slow, heavy whisper. 

“I hate Scotland,” Mycroft remarked, in a calm and off-hand manner. He stood at John’s side, staring around them with a kind of weary loathing. “Ghastly place. This wouldn’t happen in Surrey.”

John stared up at him, trying to fathom what on earth was going through Mycroft’s mind. He gave up almost immediately but the momentary distraction helped to drag him back to the here and now. “Where’s the map? We’ve got to keep moving.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft agreed, pulling out the crumpled pages and training his torchlight on them. “The river is perhaps five hundred feet to our left. If we continue in a straight line we should reach it at this bend _here_. I propose at that point we head in opposite directions for a spell, and reconvene at the same point. It would make sense to cover the banks of the river in both directions, just in case he reached it and was unable to continue.”

John nodded, unable to come up with a better suggestion. It still seemed increasingly hopeless, looking for a needle in a haystack. But waiting until dawn wasn’t an option; there was no chance Sherlock could survive exposure to conditions like these for so long. Not if he was injured and ill-clothed. 

Mycroft unexpectedly clapped him on the shoulder as they began to move again, an awkward unpractised gesture that would have made John stare if he hadn’t been so utterly consumed by their mission. They plunged on through the snow, calling Sherlock’s name endlessly. John’s anxiety seethed through him, relentless. His heartrate was staccato, loud in his ears as he and Mycroft approached the riverbank. 

The water was frozen over completely, a thick sheet of cloudy ice covering its surface. There was no sign of the surface being broken; the banks clear and empty as far they could see by torchlight in either direction. 

“Very well.” Mycroft handed the sheets of the map to John. “Take these, just in case. Shall we say twenty minutes in either direction? We will meet back at this point.”

John didn’t bother asking if Mycroft needed the map. He knew that a mere glance would have been sufficient for the information to be indelibly lodged in his mind. He nodded in agreement, tucking the sheets into his pocket. 

“Fine. Ok, then. Good luck.”

“And you, John.” Mycroft said, calmly. But his eyes were remote and cold as he turned and walked away. 

***

The riverbank was slightly easier to navigate than the rocky terrain of the snow-covered valley, the ground hard frozen with fewer drifts. But John still had to struggle through thickets of ice-laden pines and frozen bed of reeds, the light of his torch darting into every hollow and dip in the ground. His voice was growing hoarse from shouting Sherlock’s name but he couldn’t stop. It had become a pair of meaningless syllables, an endless repetitive chant. And then finally the name turned into a strange kind of prayer in his mouth. _Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock…_

There was no sign of life anywhere, not even the skitter of a deer or rabbit; no flutter of birds wings. The snowfall lightened and stopped briefly, and he caught a brief glimpse of the valley by the milky light of the moon. It was endlessly, oppressively empty in every direction, filling him with a renewed sense of dread. 

He forced himself to stop momentarily, to drink some water and to take several measured breaths; trying to ignore his hammering heart. He was nearly at the end of the allotted twenty minutes and it would soon be time to turn back again, to find Mycroft once more. Perhaps Mycroft was even now sitting at Sherlock’s side, chafing his hands and berating him for his foolishness in wandering into the wilderness alone. 

He glanced at the map again, taking in the shape of the twisting river and calculating how far he had come. The outline of the highest mountains towered over him now as he had gotten closer, and he read their names with no interest on the paper. The outline of the river curved and weaved towards a high crag, a point in the rings of contour lines marked with a small W. A waterfall no doubt, although probably just as frozen as the river beside him in the sub zero temperatures. He stared at the map a moment longer, debating whether it was worth continuing so far. Surely Sherlock couldn’t possibly have made it that far. 

A small, grey shaded rectangle caught his eye just as he was on the verge of shoving the map back into his pocket. It was hand-drawn, a mere scratch of pencil lines and the letter B scrawled beside it. He stared at it, trying to remember what on earth was denoted by that letter in OS maps. Not that these pages were anything of the kind; they were hand-drawn and coloured, probably by some local cartographer fifty or more years before. Could it mean a barn? John wondered, with a dangerous faint flicker of hope. If Sherlock had seen shelter of some description, he might have struck out towards it. He was certainly capable of pushing himself beyond normal levels of exertion and endurance when he put his mind to it. But even when he was injured, freezing, drugged?

John stared at the spot on the map, heart pounding, undecided. Mycroft would already be on his way back to their rendezvous point. But surely it would be worth just a few more minutes search, just to be sure. It couldn’t be more than another mile at the most. He couldn’t leave any stone unturned, not now that he’d come this far. 

Mycroft would just have to wait.

John stuffed his bottle of water back into his backpack, and swung it onto his shoulders. He crushed the maps back into his pocket and surged ahead, his decision made. 

Sherlock’s name came to his lips again, unbidden. He continued to call into the darkness, resolute.

***

The fire was dying down rapidly, flames devouring the dry old logs before Sherlocks’ hazy eyes. He forced himself every so often to heave himself forward and extract another from the pile, feeding the fire. He was slightly concerned about allowing himself to fall asleep – there was still a reasonable chance he could freeze to death if the fire went out for long enough. An icy draft leaked constantly around the edges of the dilapidated door and through the unglazed window, causing the flames to dance and flicker.

He had pulled his bloodstained pajamas back on as soon as they were vaguely dry, studiously ignoring the drag of stiffened fabric against his skin. And after a long struggle he had forced himself to pull on the pair of socks he had taken from Narek Harman’s body; pinching the thick wool gingerly between thumb and forefinger. [Hardly worth it. Negligible difference in temperature really.]

[His skin cells are clinging to every fibre, rubbing against mine.]

[Why the hell can’t I just delete it? It never really goes away. Not ever. None of it. I’ve deleted so many things. Dull things. Irrelevant things. So many momentous, unpleasant things. I spent a mere three hours in that house in Yerevan. A single evening. And it never goes away. Stupid. Stupid. _Unfair_.]

Sherlock took another couple of sips of melted snow, ignoring the dust and metallic flavour. He slowly folded himself down onto the rough sack of straw, lying on his side as he faced the fire. He wrapped himself as tightly as he could in Trenet’s jacket, the last of the cigarettes clamped between his dry lips. He felt a bit nauseated and light headed after the first two; the nicotine hitting his bloodstream with a welcome rush that was all too short-lived. At least they weren’t low tar. 

[You’re going to be really annoyed with yourself about falling off the wagon, you idiot.] John’s voice was long-suffering, but underneath it there was an unmistakeable hint of fondness. Sherlock could almost feel the weight of his hand on his head, recalling the precise pressure and weight of his fingers combing through his hair. His jaw tightened, and he shut his eyes. The smoke was getting into his eyes and stinging them.

[I know for a fact that you smoked as a teenager, John.]

[Yes, I did. Having to dissect a few lungs riddled with cancer in med school put an end to that fairly quickly though. There’s a thought. Maybe Molly could sort us out with a few...]

[I’ve seen plenty. Boring.]

[And it wasn’t enough to put you off smoking?] 

[Never thought I’d live long enough for it to matter, really.] Sherlock inhaled deeply, and stubbed the cigarette out on the floor. He watched the last glowing embers flare and die away on the packed earth. He shut his eyes again tightly. [I only decided to give up when we moved into Baker Street.]

John went silent again, and Sherlock sighed heavily. Exhaustion was seeping into every bone of his body. He wasn’t entirely sure how much longer he could stay awake. 

[Could you just hurry up and find me, please?]

[You know, finding you would be a damn sight easier if you gave me some kind of clue about where you are.]

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, stomach dropping with sickened realisation. He had forgotten to replace the solar lamp back on the bracket outside. It sat on the rickety table near the door; glowing feebly in the dim light.

[Shit. Shit. _Shit._ ] 

He rolled over onto his hands and knees, cursing as he put pressure on his injured leg. Now that he was no longer totally numb with cold the pain was more pronounced, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage he had wrapped around it. Struggling to his feet he seized the lantern and wrenched open the front door, the single rusted hinge protesting loudly. 

He almost cried out at the shock of frozen air against his skin, recoiling at the deep endless darkness of the valley. He was trembling by the time he managed to hook the small light back up next to the doorway. It took him several tries, and when it was finally attached he leant against the doorframe, panting hard. 

The snow seemed to have stopped for a while, and the vast emptiness before him gave Sherlock a strange, sick pang. Stars were visible overhead in places, the sky a great upturned bowl filled with pinpricks of silver light. They were far too bright and clear, no distant glow of streetlights or traffic to distort their gleam. Not a single trace of humanity, as far as the eye could see.

He turned and stumbled back inside, pushing the door shut behind him. He collapsed back down on the floor, hating the tightness in his chest and the dry ache in his throat.  
He dropped two more logs onto the fire and shut his eyes, willing the warmth back into his body. 

[Foolish, brother mine.]

[Oh for gods sake, who let you in here?]

[I’m hardly going to dignify that with an answer, am I ?] Mycroft sounded condescending and put-upon, but that was just his usual tone when speaking to Sherlock. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the small part of him he would never admit actually _wanted_ to hear his brothers voice.

[Mummy’s going to be ever so cross when she hears about this, you know. Wandering off from a crash site like that? You’ll never hear the end of it.]

[Shut up, Mycroft.]

[An elementary mistake.]

[Yes, yes, you’ve make your point! Dear god, would you give it a rest? And surely if you’re so clever, you’d have found me by now?!]

[It’s possible that I am slightly… preoccupied at the moment.] Mycroft’s tone was flat. Carefully calm.

Sherlock scrubbed his hands across his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until he saw stars. 

[What will this do to you? What could he have meant to you?]

[That’s something you will never know.]

[I don’t think anyone ever thought we were truly capable of sentiment.]

[We were always capable of it, Sherlock. I simply chose not to succumb to it.]

[Until you met him.] 

[Perhaps.]

[I watched your face when you first saw him. I know you’ve been keeping that scarf in your pocket. The one he dropped in the hallway of Violet’s house in Edinburgh. Why could that be, other than sentiment? He loved you, for some reason. I daresay you never believed it, but he did.]

[Ah, forgive me. I had forgotten that you were an expert in such matters.] Mycroft’s tone was cutting. [It hardly matters now, anyway. They shot him for trying to save you.]

[He didn’t even stop to think. The idiot threw himself at them. I couldn’t have stopped them, I swear it. I just wanted them to take me quietly, Mycroft. But I heard the shot and I saw him on the floor, he was a tangled heap and he wasn’t moving and oh god I’m _sorry_ , Mycroft. For both of you. He didn’t deserve to die like that.] 

Sherlock wasn’t aware of when the tears had started slipping down his face. He had managed to stop himself thinking of Patrick until now. He had kept the young man behind a locked door; it had stayed tightly shut until Mycroft had slipped in, uninvited. Patrick Singh, twenty seven years old. The way he’d run towards Sherlock’s attackers, single-minded and furious made him think of John. Only doing what was right; never mind if it was foolhardy in the extreme. He couldn’t help but think of what effect Patrick had had on Mycroft. He’d barely seen his brother in the last few months. 

He’d once called by Mycroft’s ridiculous townhouse in Knightsbridge unannounced, back in November. He had been planning on blackmailing him into accompanying their parents to the latest Andrew Lloyd Webber monstrosity in the West End in his place. He’d let himself in quietly through the front door, helping himself to Mycroft’s civil service pass and an apple from the table in the hall. It was nine thirty. He could hear bloody Wagner in the distance. Tristan und Isolde. His brother would doubtless be staring at the takeaway menus on the notice board in his kitchen, before reaching for one of the low calorie pre-prepared meals he kept stacked in the freezer. But no; the faint hint of cardamom and ginger lingered in the air. Mycroft must have succumbed to temptation, and Sherlock fought a grin. New ammunition. Excellent. 

And then a voice spoke in the kitchen, making him pause on the threshold. His hand froze as it reached for the door handle. A slow, rhythmic cadence to the words. Serious. Intent. 

Not his brother.

“It’s such a strange thing, to wake up in an unfamiliar place like this. On the uncomfortable floor, when you are accustomed to the softest sheets and silken coverlets. Books in an unknown language filling the shelves. But you do know this place; it’s just that you left it behind years ago. You swore you’d never return when you struck out on your own, defying your tutors and your father. Your dreams last night were haunted with a dark and mysterious-“

Sherlock’s eyebrows had been inching up his forehead in something embarrassingly close to bewilderment when he heard a bizarre sound. One that he’d almost forgotten entirely. He’d once known it well, had heard it if not frequently; then regularly at least.

Mycroft was laughing. Not a polite, social sound; the one he used for work functions and tedious relations. But the laugh that Sherlock remembered from childhood, from conversations as they lay with books on the lawn. His own small palm sweaty in Mycroft’s large hand as they walked down to the village. It was so strange to hear that sound once again. He didn’t think he’d heard it after the age of eight or so. 

Frozen outside the kitchen door, he listened intently. 

Patrick Singh was laughing now too, definitely annoyed but unmistakeably fond. “Mycroft! Come on, you said you’d give it a try-“

“I’m… I’m terribly sorry!” Mycroft seemed to be trying to control himself, with limited results. The laughter kept bubbling up, and Sherlock could almost imagine him wiping his eyes as they streamed with mirth. Mycroft’s laugh was never a small one, Sherlock remembered with something like a pang. He used to throw his head back and give in to it, when he found something truly amusing. "It's just so-"

“This is terribly bad form, Mr. Holmes.” Patrick was saying, with a great show of sternness. “Honestly-“

Sherlock suddenly pushed the door open, his hand moving without real conscious thought. 

Mycroft looked around in annoyance; Singh glanced up in surprise. They were seated at the marble-topped table in the bay window, the one that overlooked the back garden. Some kind of board-game was laid out between them, glasses of red wine and empty plates pushed carelessly to one side. A smudge of sauce on the tablecloth. A pair of smart loafers discarded underneath.

Patrick got to his feet politely, holding out his hand in greeting. Mycroft’s face smoothed out almost instantly when he saw his brother, amusement fading into inscrutability. He stood up with an unenthusiastic air, clearly steeling himself. Sherlock stared at him with narrowed eyes, taking in his brother’s appearance from head to toe. He’d clearly only returned from a business trip earlier that day. 

[Hmm… Sierra Leone, judging by the faint traces of dust on the cuffs of his trousers. Unusually rumpled, despite the long journey. No jacket or tie, a couple of his waistcoat buttons undone and his cuffs unfastened, no links. Hair almost, but not quite as meticulously slicked back as usual. Faint reddening along his jawline OH GOD! NO!]

He was aware that his mouth was open slightly, and he shut it in a hurry. Mycroft glared at him. Defensive. No, more than that. Mycroft was _embarrassed_.  
Singh was talking. Sherlock had to blink several times and replay the one-sided conversation swiftly in order to catch up. Patrick was gesturing at a couple of boxes on the central kitchen island, containing a selection of elaborately decorated and glazed fruit tarts. Two glass plates and their grandmother’s silver cake server sat next to them. Singh was offering him wine or coffee. A chair at the table.

Mycroft continued to stare at Sherlock wordlessly. Challenging. 

Patrick Singh was giving him a bemused, but friendly smile; clearly waiting for Sherlock to make some kind of remark or answer. The young man ambled back to Mycroft’s side, his slim hands slipping into the pockets of his elegant slacks. He didn’t do anything as overt as touch Sherlock’s brother, or slide an arm around him. But there was an unmistakable sense of their settling into each others’ space; a kind of gravitational pull. Probably a case of millimetres; but it was unarguably there. 

Sherlock knew he’d had a reason for being there, and he recalled it after an embarrassingly sluggish 0.4 seconds mental struggle. “Mycroft. Take Mummy and Father to _Cats_ this weekend.”

“Certainly not.” Mycroft said, in his familiar long-suffering tone. “I will do nothing of the sort. It’s your turn this month, as you know very well. I had to endure three hours of _Fame_ at the Palladium last month.”

“If you don’t, I shall tell them about the real reason you didn’t attend Aunt Millicent’s funeral-“

“Sherlock, I do not remotely care. I am not at home to your puerile threats, thank you very much.”

Sherlock looked pointedly at the brightly coloured games board on the table, the ornate little pieces and cards. “Well if we’re talking about puerile matters-“

Mycroft disappointingly did not take the bait. “Was there anything else, brother mine?”

“I’m not taking them!” Sherlock said firmly. “I’ve got far too much on at the moment. Important cases. And John says that West End musicals are bad for my mental health.”

Patrick was watching them with a faint expression of concern. “Myc, we can change the reservations; why don’t we take them? I don’t mind.”

Mycroft went very still, and didn’t answer. Patrick flushed slightly, and looked away. 

“Yes!” Sherlock said insistently, hope dawning along with the chance of making Mycroft profoundly uncomfortable. “You must! Mummy would love to meet you, Patrick.”

There was another long silence. Sherlock took a bite of the apple that he had just remembered was still in his hand, crunching it loudly. 

“Sherlock, do run along. I will speak to you later.” Mycroft said quietly, turning and reaching out for the plates and cutlery on the table. Patrick automatically went to help him, picking up crumpled linen napkins and the salt cellar. 

On principle, Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but then stopped. This was the kind of moment where John would be stepping on his foot or not-so-subtly elbowing him in the side. Patrick was smiling at him, polite and charming. He was resolutely not looking at Mycroft, who had his back turned and was fussily placing the plates in the dishwasher. The atmosphere had shifted infinitesimally; the faint creases in Patrick’s forehead just a little more pronounced. 

“Oh, fine! I’ve got to go speak to someone down in Soho anyway.” Sherlock announced, sweeping towards the door. “Places to go. Things to do.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.” He heard Patrick say, as he pushed the door open once more. Mycroft raised a hand dismissively in farewell, but didn’t meet his eye or respond. 

[Why didn’t you want Mummy and Father to meet him? I mean, besides the obvious reasons of their being embarrassing and boring. But he wanted to.]

[I hadn’t known him very long.]

[I didn’t think anyone could make you laugh like that.]

[Aside from you, you mean?]

Sherlock attempted to curl up even more tightly, edging a few inches closer to the fire. 

[What will this do to you?]

[You’re repeating yourself, brother mine.]

[He loved you and you didn’t believe it could be true. That’s it, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s us, believing that nobody could feel that way about us.]

[Pots and kettles, Sherlock.]

[John has told me he loves me exactly seventy six times.]

[But clearly it hasn’t been enough, has it? No matter what you’ve alleged, you were always the greedy one, Sherlock. So quick to believe that John Watson was going to leave you, no matter what he’s said to you.]

[Because it never made sense, did it? I’ll never be able to give him enough. I’ll never be able to give him what he needs and deserves. Only a matter of time before he realises that. Might all be academic at this point, really. I’ll probably be dead soon.]

[Histrionics are terribly unbecoming, Sherlock.]

[I am _literally_ freezing to death, Mycroft. There’s only enough wood to keep the fire going for the next couple of hours at most. It will be pitch black outside for several more hours, and I was idiotic enough to forget to replace the lantern outside. No one is going to find me; not for a long while.]

Mycroft faded away as Sherlock’s eyes finally closed, bled dry with fatigue and sadness.

[I’d give anything; I’d give you anything you asked me for.] His thoughts were becoming blurry and indistinct as he slipped closer to sleep. [I’d write you letters; I’d tell you to your face every day. I swear I’d find the words, if I only had another chance.]

***

John wasn’t entirely sure what he was staring at, standing stock-still at the edge of the frozen river. The wind was picking up and plucked at the snow-laden pines, making them dance and dislodge showers of ice. At first he thought that the strange glimmer was the murky glow of the moon on the branches, or intermittent starlight. But while the snow reflected shadowy grey, this light was a feeble green. It flickered and disappeared as the pines swayed, seeming to wink in and out of existence. If it were summer he could have believed it was a firefly in the distance. 

He was almost scared to start picking his way though the trees and fallen logs. Scared to take his eyes off the tiny light, in case it winked out of existence entirely. He caught his backpack on the broken limb of a tree and had to struggle hard to free himself, all the while slowly sinking into a thick drift of snow. His trousers had soaked through long ago, and his legs were numb with cold. He was barely aware of them as he staggered on, doggedly shoving one foot ahead of the other. His torch was of little use as he scrambled through the trees, only illuminating the trunks of the closest trees. He almost lost the greenish light entirely several times as he was forced to make detours and climb over fallen logs.

John couldn’t stop thinking of Mycroft, waiting for him miles away; back on the riverbank. He knew that this detour was foolhardy in the extreme, that he was only endangering himself as well as the others by not sticking to the original plan. Christ, he might even be distracting them from the true direction Sherlock had taken. He might end up being responsible for losing Sherlock altogether. 

This last thought made him stop with a jolt, just as he reached the other side of the pines. It was ridiculous to put all his hopes on a small, indeterminate square on an old map. It could mean just about anything. It could even symbolise something that was no longer there; the topographical study they had used was ancient. But the greenish light was still there, flickering feebly in the distance. 

He had come this far. There was no point in turning back now. 

The last stretch of snow seemed endless, and John realised with a creeping sense of unease that he might not have the energy to make it back to the rendezvous point. It seemed incredible that this whole serious of ghastly events had only begun early the previous morning; that he had woken up in a warm bed with Sherlock sleeping unconcernedly at his side. Before Mary had appeared out of nowhere, shattering everything around them. The harsh words they’d exchanged. Patrick bleeding under his hands, gasping for breath. The sheer, wrenching panic when he’d realised that Sherlock had been taken. The knife in his hands, pressed to Mary’s throat. Charred bodies in the snow. This endless, freezing, exhausting march through the wilderness. 

All of it, in less than a day. How was that even possible? He felt as though his whole world had been shaken, pieces swirling haphazardly in a glass bubble. And all of it had led to this moment. Staggering alone through an icy landscape, dazed and near collapse. 

Another ten minutes trudge brought him to the edge of a frozen waterfall, a tangled mass of ice and shadows. He barely glanced at it; the light was finally growing stronger, brighter. He pushed his aching limbs just a fraction faster, half afraid of what he might find at its’ source.

One final push round an outcrop of boulders, and John stopped dead. With shaking hands he directed the beam of his torch at the small lantern which swayed on a rusting hook, set into a tumbledown pile of rocks. A sheet of rusting iron gave scant shelter; but what stopped his heart was the sight of a rotting wooden door set beneath it. He could barely bring himself to move; hope and fear warring within his chest. There was no sound coming from within. 

Forcing himself to step closer, he spied the faintest line of light coming from the gap beneath the door. He took one more deep breath, and stupidly found himself wondering if he should knock. His arm was shaking as he lifted it, his gloved hand pushing numbly at the splintering wood. It gave way with a metallic shriek, the single hinge protesting. 

The small stone hut was almost entirely dark, and the contrast with the bright beam of his torch left John struggling to see around. A fire was burning very low in a rough fireplace, sticks of broken furniture here and there. He could barely bring himself to move closer to the bundle of what looked like sacks and rags, silhouetted against the fading firelight. It wasn’t moving. 

He stumbled closer, unable to feel his feet as he crossed the packed earth floor. The room was barely warmer than outside, although without the wind in his ears the silence was deafening. His hands were trembling as he sank to his knees, reaching out to touch the bundle next to the fireplace. His torchlight picked out the gleam of dark hair, bundled beneath a tattered black jacket. A long white hand, streaked with cinders and blood. He bit his lip hard as he pulled back the heavy hood of the garment, seeing the bone pale face underneath.

( _Alive. He’s still alive. It’s all that matters._ )

“Sherlock?” his voice cracked as he said it, throat hoarse from cold and calling out that name. “Sherlock, love. Darling idiot. Please…”

It took a frighteningly long time for Sherlock to blink slowly awake, eyes cloudy in the darkness. He lay there limply, staring at John so expressionlessly it was frightening. John tightened his grip on his shoulders, willing himself to stay calm. 

“Sherlock, it’s me. John. I’ve, um… I’ve come to rescue you, I suppose.” The words were so ridiculous when he heard himself say them he half laughed, terror and relief bubbling out of him. He half collapsed, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s. “Oh god, Sherlock. Please. Just tell me you’re alright?”

Sherlock’s hand reached up and grasped the side of John’s jacket weakly. He let out a quiet gasp, and John could feel rather than see him blinking rapidly. “It’s you, isn’t it? Not… not the other one?”

John moved a few inches back, just enough so that he could press his hand to Sherlock’s clammy cheek. He nodded, understanding at once. “I swear, it’s me. Not mind palace me. I promise, Sherlock. I’m actually here.”

“It’s you. You’re here.” Sherlock’s hands were clumsy, but tightened on John; drinking in every aspect of his face. He seemed almost scared to look away. John nodded again, suddenly unable to speak. The relief was almost crushing him now, breath escaping him with a sound that was close to a ragged sob. 

“I’m here,” he managed to say. “I’m here and you’re going to be fine.”

Sherlock’s mouth was dry and cracked; it probably hurt when it curved into the faintest of smiles. 

“Of course I am,” he said simply, and shut his eyes when John kissed him.


	12. Chapter 12

John wasn’t able to speak for a long minute. He simply let himself slide to the floor at Sherlock’s side after shoving a couple of logs from the dwindling pile onto the embers of the fire. Sherlock’s eyes were closed but he was breathing easily, his hand reaching out to clutch John’s arm tightly when he was within arms reach once more. John knew that he should be moving, should be checking Sherlock’s injuries and planning their route back to the car and the rest of the search party. But he let himself give in to his instincts, pulling his jacket over them both and pressing his palm to Sherlock’s cheek. 

“You’re safe now. I swear, you’re safe.”

“They are dead, aren’t they? Definitely?” Sherlock asked, after swallowing hard. He opened his eyes after a moment, and the pleading in their depths made John’s blood run cold. 

“I- no, I saw him. Them. Christ, my head isn’t right, John. I can’t stand it; I-“

“You’re exhausted and whatever they gave you is still washing around in your system, love. You’re clearly dehydrated and I doubt you’ve eaten anything, either-“

“I’ve been through worse,” Sherlock said, glaring at the floor and his fingers tightened where they were hooked into the neck of John’s sweater. “I shouldn’t have bloody crumbled like this, John. I’m stronger than this, I-“

“You’re the strongest person I have ever known,” John said, low and fierce. “And you did brilliantly to find this place, to stay safe like you did. And, Christ, Sherlock. You were in the same car as- I mean, you knew who he was…”

Sherlock nodded, and swallowed convulsively. “Yes, of course. He- he didn’t do much. He didn’t have the chance. Trenet told him he’d let him, later on.” he inhaled deeply, not meeting John’s eyes. 

John’s rage surged suddenly, futile hatred and utter shame at the part he had played in the whole sorry mess. As much as he wanted to beg forgiveness, he knew Sherlock didn’t have the energy to deal with his guilt. “He’s dead. I saw him. They’re all dead.” he repeated firmly.

“Not… not Mary, though?” Sherlock asked, quietly. John didn’t know how to read the expression on his face. 

“No, not her. We left her locked up back at the house. I think some people of Mycroft’s will have picked her up by now.”

Sherlock nodded, his face pinched and white. “Good,” he said, eventually.

John pressed his cold lips to his cheek, fighting back the near-nausea. The tide of words left unsaid. 

Not the time.

“Can I take a look at you?” he asked, instead. “You’re bleeding.”

Sherlock nodded, shutting his eyes and burrowing into his makeshift bed of straw-filled sacking and John’s jacket. 

“I’ll have to get you another pair of pajamas. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t even use these for dusters, now.” John murmured, pulling gently at the hem of Sherlock’s trousers. He winced at the deep, ragged gash in his calf and across his shin. The bleeding had clearly slowed, but still oozed darkly in places. Sherlock had tied a strip of fabric torn from his sleeve around the wound but it was soaked through and almost useless. 

“Is this the worst of it?” he asked, quietly. And before he could filter the words he added: “I saw your blood in the snow.”

“Bruising. Scrapes, mostly. I’ve got a cut behind my ear but it’s superficial.” Sherlock swallowed hard, and rolled onto his back. The firelight cast strange, dark shadows across his face. “John, can you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Can you give me your socks?”

John blinked, and looked down at Sherlock’s feet which were encased in thick hiking socks and unlaced heavy boots. They were better protected from the elements than the rest of him, but he supposed that he must still be freezing due to poor circulation. 

“’Course. Hang on-“ he pulled off Sherlock’s boots and gently checked the movement in his woollen-covered toes. They seemed largely uninjured, thankfully. 

Sherlock sharply withdrew his foot as John went to roll his own socks on top of the pair that covered Sherlock’s feet. “No. I just want yours. I- I can’t wear these ones any more. You told me I had to, so I did. But now you’re here and we can swap. Alright?” 

He was trembling slightly, and the confused jumble of words made John feel deeply uneasy. Sherlock looked embarrassed and defensive, but he was so adamant that John felt himself nodding and doing as he asked. He stared at the dark blue socks discarded on the floor next to him for a long moment before pulling them on to his own freezing feet. He supposed that it was a very long way from the oddest thing Sherlock had asked John to do for him.

Sherlock seemed to relax slightly, once the switch was made. John rummaged in his backpack and found his water bottle along with a handful of biscuits and some Kendal mint cake. Sherlock made a slight face at both but managed to swallow a few mouthfuls as he watched John pull out the map from his pocket. 

“Look, here we are. I went a bit off-plan when I came looking for you, I’m afraid. Mycroft and I-“

“Mycroft?!” Sherlock said sharply, suddenly seeming much more alert. “Mycroft’s here?”

“Well, not far from here. We were supposed to meet at this point on the river about an hour ago-“

“Is he alright?” Sherlock grasped John’s arm tightly. “He shouldn’t be out there, he shouldn’t be on his own!”

John stared at him, feeling almost shocked at the depth of concern in Sherlock’s face. And with a sense of shame he thought of Patrick, for the first time in what seemed like eons. He put down the map slowly. 

“Patrick told him to come look for you,” he said, covering Sherlock’s hand with his own. “Wouldn’t hear of Mycroft coming to the hospital with him.”

“He’s alive,” Sherlock said, almost inaudibly. He leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against John’s shoulder and the deep, ragged breath he pulled in was painful to hear. “I thought he- I saw him, when they were carrying me out. I heard the shot.”

John’s fingers found themselves wrapped around the back of Sherlock’s neck, holding him steady. “Patrick- he needed surgery. They airlifted him to Aberdeen just as we were leaving to come find you.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say more, to tell Sherlock just how badly Patrick was injured. Not when he was in this strange, fragile state. Despite his almost crushing relief at finding Sherlock, he was worried at his weakness and at his moments of inarticulate confusion. 

“He tried to intervene.” Sherlock said eventually, slightly muffled by John’s sleeve. “It was all so stupid, he opened his bedroom door just as they were taking me. They hit him, he was on the floor but I think he was just winded. They were going to leave him, and he still got up and tried to fight them. Armed with nothing but a bloody candlestick. So stupid. He was trying to _help_ ,”

“I know, love. They’re doing the best they can for him.”

Sherlock looked up sharply at this, and John couldn’t do anything but let him read whatever was in his exhausted face. “Where was he wounded?”

“Lower intestine. It’s not an easy surgery, but he’s young and strong. He’s going to be getting the best treatment possible.” John tried to sound more confident than he really was, despite knowing how easily Sherlock always saw though him. 

But Sherlock merely nodded, something approaching resolve in his face. “Where is Mycroft now?”

“Probably standing on a freezing riverbank and thinking about ways to make me pay for it,” John said, with a brave attempt at levity. “Anthea and Violet were heading towards a gap in the mountains, in case you’d headed that way. We’re supposed to be reconvening at the crash site soon. We’ll need to let them know we’re here somehow.”

John hadn’t really thought about how he was going to fire the Walther for the first time; but he certainly hadn’t expected to use it as a signal for rescue from a dark corner of a snowbound valley. Standing a few feet from the doorway, he fired three times straight into the air. The sound was thunderous as it reverberated around the bowl of the mountains, echoing through the passes. Sherlock stood leaning against the doorframe, staring out into the desolate white wilderness, frustration clearly warring with fatigue. 

After a considerable amount of effort, John managed to set light to a pile of broken furniture using several pages from a paperback book and a half-burnt log from the fireplace. The flames streamed in the frozen air, smoking and billowing as they caught hold of the scarred wood. He could tell that the fire wouldn’t last long; they had too little to sacrifice to the flames and the snowfall could resume at any time. They could only hope that Mycroft, Anthea or Violet spotted the beacon before it disappeared. 

“Come on. I think that’s the best we can do for now,” John said, touching Sherlock’s shoulder as he went back inside. Sherlock nodded and limped slowly back to the fireplace, where he sat down heavily at John’s side. 

They sat for a long while in silence, staring at the dying embers; each lost in their own thoughts. The cold was relentless, but at least there was some heat in sitting pressed together. 

“There’s a lot of stuff I want to say to you,” John said, shattering the silence at last. He stared down at his hands, fingers knotted around his knees. He could feel the weight of Sherlock’s gaze on the side of his face, but didn’t meet his eyes. “I know this isn’t the time. But there’s something I need you to know, Sherlock. Even if what she said to me was true, I’d never have gone back to her. Not in a million years.”

Sherlock huddled deeper into his jacket, and his lack of response was what made John eventually turn to face him. His face was so weary, shadows resting in the pained lines around his eyes. He sighed deeply, knotting his grimy fingers together. He opened his mouth, as if to speak; and then closed it again. Shook his head. 

“I mean it, Sherlock.” John said, insistent. He could feel a tightness in this throat. “We really, really need to get this clear between us. I would never leave you like that.”

“And yet she knew the best way to lure you away was to talk about her child.” Sherlock said, eventually. His voice was low and careful. “She could have used any lie at all, but she knew that one would be most effective. I remember, you see. I remember what it was like when you came back to Baker Street. I remember the tears running down your face that first night. How you told me about the daughter you’d been longing for. Caroline, John. I remember your grief.” Sherlock took a long, slow breath. The words were clearly an effort, his voice shaking slightly. “It haunts me to think of it. Both the damage it caused you, and how much you had wanted her.”

John nodded, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. He couldn’t deny the truth of Sherlock’s words, despite the pain they caused him. The memories they stirred up. “I did. I wanted her, when I believed she was real. When I believed she was mine. And Christ, I worry about her; wherever she is. Sherlock, I worry about her so much. I don’t know where she is now, who she’s with… nobody deserves to start their life like that.”

“You see? You still want her.” Sherlock said flatly. “And I’ve known that all along. It doesn’t matter that she’s not your biological child. You prepared a space for her in your life, John. She never arrived and you’re still mourning her. And I know that one day you’re going to try and fill that gap again. And then… that’s when you’ll leave me.” Sherlock’s eyes were calm, and full of a kind of quiet desperation. John was shaking his head already, ready to argue. But Sherlock held up his hand; willing him to listen. “It’s all right, John. I realised this a long time ago. It’s never changed how I feel about you.”

“Oh my god. You’ve just been waiting, all this time…” John said numbly. He abruptly felt sick, sick and angry at the realisation. “How can you be so fucking calm about this, Sherlock?! How can you tell me, calm as anything, that you’ve been expecting me to leave you to have a family with someone else?”

“Please don’t shout,” Sherlock said, between gritted teeth. 

John forced himself to subside into silence, taking several long deep breaths. He could feel himself shaking. He sensed a precipice here, both of them balancing on a knife edge. 

“I wish I had the right words to explain this to you,” he said, at length. “I’m so tired and I just wish we were sitting on the sofa at Baker Street with our feet on the table and the sound of London beneath our window. Because that’s where we belong, you and me. Next week. Next year. When we’re old. It’s always you and me, before anyone else. Ever. And I understand I was a mess when I came back. Jesus, I was there! I remember! But you need to understand that Mary and Caroline, they were part of a future I thought I’d found after I lost you. I had to come up with a new life, when you were dead. Because the alternative was for me to be dead, too. And yes, you _dick_ , I forgave you. But I’m still fucking livid about it sometimes. I try not to be, but I still am.” John was having trouble with not shouting. Sherlock sat silently, utterly still as he listened.

“Getting married to Mary, it was a train set in motion before you got back. What the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t even know I was in love with you then! And it was a disaster, it was already a disaster waiting to happen. Even without me thinking we were going to have a family. I knew when I married her we’d probably end up divorced in a few years but that’s just normal odds for people these days. And all the while you’d been egging me on, folding bloody napkins and helping with the bridesmaids bloody dresses and I believed that you wanted me to have that life, Sherlock! You taught me how to dance, so that I could do it with someone else!

“And…” he subsided abruptly, watching Sherlock’s pained expression with a heavy heart. “And yes, when I believed we were going to have Caroline, once I got used to the idea… yes I wanted her. I thought I could do something good in this world, I thought I could be a decent father. I didn’t know what Mary would be like as a mother so I thought I’d try my best. And I thought you’d be part of it all, you know. I thought you’d be an amazing uncle to her. Give her unsuitable reading material, teach her how to deduce and fight, I don’t know... I built up this whole story in my head about what life with her was going to be like. Reading to her. Racing trollies in the supermarket. And then when Mary told me the truth… my world collapsed again.” John felt like he was rambling, on the verge of tears because Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him. “But you need to know that it wasn’t something I chose instead of you, Sherlock. Because if I’d had a choice it would _always_ have been a life with you. Every time.”

“Even if we never have children?” Sherlock said, barely audible. 

“Yes!” John said, at once. “God, Sherlock; please! Please listen to me about this! It’s not essential for me. It’s not something I need to do; it was only one possible future. And Jesus, I worry about Caroline or whatever her name is – a part of me has always needed to know that she’s alright. And if she isn’t, I want to help her if I can. But I don’t need to be her dad. It’s the same with Murdy, she’s a wonderful kid but she’s not mine and I don’t want her to be mine. I want her to be safe and happy and understood, I want her to have a great life! And… to be honest that’s mainly because I think a lot about you, about the kind of child you probably were. I wish I could travel back in time. I wish I could have grown up in the house next door to you, so I could make sure you were never misunderstood or lonely.”

At this, Sherlock finally looked up. His eyes were wide, shining with unmistakeable tears. John slowly reached out and touched his cheek, an ache in his chest. “Sherlock, I just wish there was a way to make you understand that you’re not alone. That you never have to be, not if you don’t want. I’ve always been yours. There’s something connecting us, you and me. I don’t really understand it but it’s always been there. Ever since that first day at Barts.” 

John half-laughed at the wonder in Sherlock’s tired, dirty face. 

“You… you felt that too?” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. 

John nodded, relief flooding through him as Sherlock sagged into his arms. “Always.”

***

John wasn’t sure how much time passed as they waited, watching the last of the wood being devoured by the fire. He lay on the lumpy sack filled with musty straw, Sherlock’s head on his chest as they shared what little body heat they had. It was far from warm or comfortable, and he was still anxious to get Sherlock more medical attention than he could provide. Sherlock had been quiet since their conversation, slipping in and out of sleep. He never entirely let go of John. 

John was on the verge of passing out with exhaustion too, his body aching after the terror and stress of the day, and the long slog through the snow. He felt drained mentally, almost weak with relief that they had finally managed to sort out at least one of their unspoken tensions. His eyelids were weighted, the room sliding out of focus and his limbs growing heavier by the second. 

He wasn’t sure if he was merely imagining the distant droning noise; it ebbed and buzzed on the edge of hearing for several minutes as his eyelids grew heavier. But it was enough to keep him awake, gradually more alert as it grew louder, more persistent. Sherlock slept on, pressed against his chest; but John’s eyes widened as he discerned distant shouts, echoing through the valley outside. 

“Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock!” he shook his arm gently. “Sherlock, love. Come on, wake up! Someone’s coming!”

Sherlock blinked blearily, and let John lever him to a sitting position. Through the small glassless window the light now had the dim, greyish quality of approaching dawn. John staggered to his aching feet, joints stiff and protesting from the cold floor. Lumbering towards the door, he pulled at it with shaking fingers and threw it wide open; frigid air swirling into the dark bothy. 

He was nearly blinded by the blaze of light, harsh beams cutting through the grim gloom of the valley as two vehicles rounded the nearest thicket of pines. The roar of the engines was almost deafening and he almost cringed back, only truly realising now how deathly quiet the valley had been throughout the night. Once his eyes adjusted to the harsh glare of headlights, he realised that they were snowmobiles, weaving over the uneven surfaces and gliding around half-buried boulders and trees. Belatedly, he let out a hoarse shout and waved frantically as they approached the snowbound bothy.

The sheer relief he felt when he saw Mycroft on the back of the first snowmobile almost eclipsed just how bizarre a sight it was. The elder Holmes sat behind an unfamiliar, khaki-uniformed man, hands stiffly holding on to his waist. As they drew to a halt nearby, Mycroft scrambled off and plunged through the snow towards John. His jaw was rigid, blue eyes sharp as knives.

“He’s alright-“ John said at once. “He’s here. He’s alright, Mycroft, I-“

Mycroft brushed past him, not bothering to respond. John couldn’t bring himself to care even a tiny bit, particularly when he turned and saw Mycroft sinking to one knee at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock struggled up on one elbow, leaning on the old straw filled sack as he looked into his brother’s face. They didn’t touch; didn’t even speak. But John could sense a world of unspoken communication between them, in Sherlock’s wide eyes and the line of Mycroft’s shoulders. 

“Oh Christ, John!” He turned just in time to spot Violet before she barrelled in to him, flinging her arms tightly around his neck. Her face was bone pale, scars and freckles livid against the whiteness of her skin. “You’re okay. You’re both okay?”

He nodded, letting go of her so that she could peer inside the bothy. Whatever she saw inside made her swallow hard, but she managed a shaky smile a moment later; clearly deciding to allow Sherlock and Mycroft a moment. Violet gestured at the snowmobiles nearby, and their uniformed drivers. “The TA found me and Anthea as we headed towards the northern pass, and then we saw your signal not long after. She’s gone back to find Murdy and Griz.”

“You look exhausted.”

“You’re no picture yourself, laddie” she countered, and sat down so suddenly on the doorstep he suspected her legs couldn’t hold her up any longer. He sank down beside her, wrapping an arm round her shoulders; ignoring the minute tremors of her body. They sat there for several long moments, staring dully ahead and inhaling the icy air.

“They didn’t- I mean. He’s-“ Violet murmured softly. “Oh god, please tell me?”

John shook his head, understanding her meaning at once and feeling sick at the thought. “No, I don’t think so. He’s badly shaken and he’s still got a lot of whatever drug it was washing around his system. He’s got some superficial injuries, but I think he’s going to be okay. He needs rest and warmth and some food more than anything. He thought Patrick was dead and he’s been stuck in his own head for too long.”

“Christ.” Violet muttered. She sank forward until her face was pressed into her damp tweed-covered knees. She hissed quietly and with utmost venom: “I’d kill them. I’d kill them all if they weren’t already dead.”

“I know.” John agreed, heavily. He didn’t know what else to say. 

“John. Vi!” Sherlock’s voice came from behind them, and they both whipped around to catch sight of him standing just inside the doorway. He was upright, weaving slightly as an impassive Mycroft supported him with a firm hand under his elbow. Violet leapt to her feet, flinging her arms around his middle so tightly that he winced. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head briefly and met John’s gaze. There was a shadow of his usual bravado in the disdainful look he gave their surroundings. “I think I’m ready to go.”

“I’ll bet you are,” John said, with a weak smile. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”


End file.
